CHANTING 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


CHANTING  WHEELS 

A  NOVEL 


BY 

HUBBARD  HUTCHINSON 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
NEW   YORK    AND    LONDON 

Ube  Iknfcfeerbocfeer  press 
1922 


Copyright,  1922 

by 
Hubbard  Hutchinson 

Made  in  the  United  States  of  America 


tto 
EVA  AND  ~H.AR.RIE 

WITH   GRATITUDE  AND  DEEP   LOVE 

I   DEDICATE   THIS 
THEIR  FIRST   GRANDCHILD 


1928973 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — THE  FIRST  DISSONANCE      ...  1 

II. — FAMILY  PORTRAITS       ....  16 

III. — THE  REALM  OF  VULCAN       ...  31 

IV. — "PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE"          .        .  51 

V. — FUGUES  AND  FISTS         ....  56 

VI. — INDIGESTIBLE   MANNA           ...  69 

VII. — MANICURES  AND  MORALS      ...  93 

VIII. — APPLIED  UPLIFT 104 

IX. — MANICURIAL  CONSEQUENCES        .        .111 

X. — THE  FORBIDDEN  MODE          .        .        .  126 

XI. — MORE  FAMILY  PORTRAITS      .        .        .  134 

XII. — PREJUDICE — AND  SKIIS         .        .        .  146 

XIII — SECOND   MEETINGS         ....  157 

XIV. — ORPHEUS  ON  MAIN  STREET  .        .        .  166 

XV.— REHEARSALS  172 


vi  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVI. — APPASSIONATO  .  .  .  .  .  186 

XVII.— BARRIERS 200 

XVIII.— SOWING  DISCORD  219 

XIX.— TABLE-MANNERS  .  .  .  .227 

XX.— MENACE 240 

XXI. — CULMINATION  .....  247 

XXII. — LAMENTOSO 261 

XXIII. — MUTUAL  COUNCIL  ....  262 
XXIV.— THE  IDEA  COMES  .  .  .  .273 

XXV.— YELLOW  ROSES 281 

XX VI. —THE  HYPER-DORIAN  MODE  286 


CHANTING  WHEELS 

CHAPTER    I 

THE  FIRST  DISSONANCE 

RALEIGH  swung  up  the  narrow  road  from  the 
trolley,  and  sniffed  the  smoky  air  with  a  zest 
of  anticipation  tempered  by  the  cinders  of  reality. 
Then  he  laughed  gaily.  After  all,  it  would  be  a 
lark.  He  passed  some  workmen,  with  a  flash  of 
white  teeth  and  a  flare  of  color  so  out  of  keeping 
with  the  sootstained  sky  and  the  drab  tones  of  road 
and  factory  that  two  of  them  turned  and  stared 
after  him. 

He  wondered  what  his  uncle  would  say,  the  uncle 
whom  he  had  not  seen  for  three  years,  and  whom 
he  had  only  seen  five  times.  The  last  was  just  before 
he  had  gone  to  France.  He  remembered,  smiling 
to  himself,  the  first  time  this  uncle  had  come  to  the 
house — a  tall,  finely-built  man,  with  black  hair  even 
then  frosty  and  a  square  face  with  the  angular  jaws 
and  mouth  of  a  conqueror.  To  Raleigh's  twelve- 
year-old  curiosity,  he  was  all  that  was  beautiful  in 
strength,  and  he  had  loved  him  on  sight.  As  was 

i 


2  Chanting  Wheels 

natural  to  him,  he  had  gone  straight  to  the  piano 
and  begun  to  play,  confident  that  this  new  god 
would  lean  over  him  in  amazed  approbation  as  did 
his  teachers.  At  that  epoch  in  the  road  of  music  he 
had  reached  the  place  where  "I  Dreamt  That  I 
Dwelt  In  Marble  Halls"  held  for  him  the  passion  of 
Tristan  and  the  exaltation  of  Parsifal.  He  had 
just  reached  the  place  in  the  playing  where  the 
music  soared  to  full-mouthed  chords  very  hard  to 
play  but-  beautiful  beyond  dreams,  when  his  uncle 
had  spoken  almost  as  though  he  were  not  present 
at  all,  and  quite  as  if  no  playing  were  going  on. 

"Sis,  you  ought  to  get  that  boy  out  of  doors ;  he 
shouldn't  be  moping  at  the  piano  like  a  girl." 

The  rainbow-hued  crystals  rising  round  him 
through  his  music  had  crashed  suddenly  to  earth, 
and  he  had  hated  his  uncle.  For  years  the  hatred 
endured;  he  hated  him  all  the  more,  of  course, 
because  he  had  so  much  wanted  to  love  him. 

He  remembered  it  now,  as  he  swung  along- 
remembered  the  puzzled  look  growing  in  his  mother's 
gentle,  practical  face  as  she  had  replied. 

"But  David,  he  doesn't  want  to  go  out  and  play. 
He  just  lives  at  the  piano.  He's  perfectly  well, 
though,  and  strong  as  a  little  horse."  Her  face,  so 
like  his  uncle's,  had  clouded  with  the  strange  look 
Raleigh  was  to  know  well  as  he  grew  older;  the 
look  of  a  mother  who  finds  she  has  brought  some 
one  into  the  world  that  she  cannot  possibly 
understand. 

Raleigh's   eyes  filled   suddenly,   and   he   reached 


The  First  Dissonance  3 

rather  hastily  for  his  handkerchief.  His  dear,  puz 
zled  mother — perhaps 

Then  all  thoughts  were  knocked  from  him. 

He  rounded  the  corner,  his  handkerchief  for  the 
instant  in  his  eyes,  and  a  warm,  compact  figure 
struck  him  violently  in  the  chest.  Raleigh  gasped, 
cleared  his  vision,  and  looked  down  into  the  flushed 
face  of  a  girl.  For  an  instant  both  gazed.  Though 
he  subconsciously  registered  the  brilliance  of  her 
cheeks  and  the  blown  curves  of  her  hair,  he  actually 
saw  only  the  trouble  in  the  blue  eyes,  and  the  dila 
tion  of  the  pupils.  His  mood  of  reminiscence  had 
perhaps  sensitized  him. 

"You're  in  trouble"  he  said,  catching  two  small 
bare  hands  red  with  the  cold.  "What  is  it — what 
can  I  do?" 

For  an  instant  the  blue  eyes  looked  at  him,  and 
something  of  the  trouble  left  them.  She  caught  a 
quick  breath,  and  smiled  a  little,  with  an  unexpected 
wreath  of  laughter  lines  traced  for  a  moment  round 
her  mouth. 

"My!"  she  gasped.  "You  surprised  me  so."  At 
the  voice  Raleigh's  interest  doubled ;  it  was  the  rare 
low-pitched  velvet  of  the  true  contralto. 

"I  was  hurrying  so"  the  voice  rushed  on,  "I 
didn't  see  you  at  all.  Perhaps  you  can  help  him — 
or  her,"  with  a  quick  scrutiny  of  the  tall  figure. 
"Do  you  work  here?" 

"Not  yet.    What  is  it?" 

"Come  on."  She  turned,  and  hurried  with  long, 
swift  strides  along  the  frozen  walk  toward  the  shop 


4  Chanting  Wheels 

entrance,  Raleigh  at  her  side.  He  tried  to  catch 
the  fragmentary  story. 

"He  was  workin'  on  the  night  shift,  and  he 
worked  over  time  or  something.  He  must  have  got 
kind  of  sleepy,  I  guess,  'cause  they  say  he  just 
crawled  into  the  press-hole  to  fix  a  plate,  an'  the 
thing  came  down  on  him.  Oh — "  she  shuddered, 
her  lips  going  white — "he's  awful." 

Raleigh  gripped  her  elbow,  and  they  hurried  along 
the  icy  pavement.  The  girl  turned  past  the  shop 
entrance  down  a  street  flanked  by  a  bare  wall  of  the 
factory. 

"It's  his  sister"  she  said.  "They  sent  word  home 
what  happened — they  just  live  about  a  block  away. 
He's  outside  on  a  stretcher.  Poor  little  thing — she's 
about  crazy.  I  was  goin'  for  a  doctor." 

Raleigh's  heart  tightened  as  he  heard.  They 
approached  an  opening  in  the  wall — double  doors 
like  those  into  a  carriage  house.  From  this  came 
the  screams  of  a  woman.  Even  above  the  softened 
roar  of  the  shops  beyond  Raleigh  heard  them,  un 
varying  as  a  whistle  blast,  inhumanly  regular. 
Under  them  he  caught  the  groaning  of  a  man.  He 
seized  the  girl  and  sped.  They  flashed  through 
the  open  gates. 

A  small  group  stood  irregularly  round  a  man 
laid  on  a  stretcher.  He  was  young,  but  his  face  was 
so  gnarled  with  agony  that  it  had  lost  almost  the 
semblance  of  humanity.  Over  him  had  been  hastily 
thrown  a  coat.  Beneath  it  crept  out  a  steady  stream 
of  dark  blood.  The  coat  was  short ;  it  did  not  hide 


The  First  Dissonance  5 

the  dreadful  feet,  crushed  out  of  their  shoes  like  an 
orange  out  of  its  skin.  One  arm  was  bent  under 
the  man's  head,  the  clenched  fist  blue  and  white 
under  the  grime.  The  other 

Raleigh  turned  quickly  away  from  him  to  his 
(companion,  who  had  dropped  beside  a  crouching 
figure  at  the  man's  head,  a  girl  whose  dead  black 
eyes  spotted  her  parchment  face,  and  who  screamed. 
Raleigh's  companion  had  thrown  an  arm  about  her 
and  was  trying  to  soothe  her. 

He  looked  back  at  the  man,  and  his  head  swirled 
for  a  moment.  Several  workmen  stood  about,  horror 
on  their  stolid  faces.  A  youth  knelt  beside  a  medi 
cine  case,  and  gazed  into  it  helplessly.  Raleigh 
touched  him. 

"What's  been  done?" 

The  youth — there  was  sweat  on  his  forehead — 
licked  his  lips. 

"We've  just  sent  for  the  ambulance.  I — I  don't 
know  much  about  it.  Dr.  Ledlie's  not  here  today — 
My  God!" — as  the  crushed  man's  groans  rose 
higher. 

Raleigh's  voice  flicked  like  a  whip.  "What — 
you've  done  nothing  to  ease  him?" 

The  other  shook  his  head.  In  an  instant 
Raleigh's  white,  muscular  hands  were  running 
through  the  medicine  case.  He  found  the  hypo 
dermic,  selected  a  tiny  phial  from  the  row  under 
their  steel  guards,  and  carefully  broke  the  top  and 
filled  the  needle.  Then  he  turned  to  the  writhing 
man. 


6  Chanting  Wheels 

• 

"This  will  help,  old  fellow"  came  in  the  quiet, 
steadying  voice.  He  slit  the  sleeve  of  the  unhurt 
arm,  fumbled  for  a  moment  for  the  vein,  then 
slowly  pressed  the  piston  home. 

Loss  of  blood  hastene^  +he  reaction;  the  strain 
ing  eyes  relaxed,  and  turned  gratefully  to  Ra 
leigh  for  an  uncertain  moment.  The  groans  sank 
to  a  whistling  breath.  Raleigh  laid  a  hand  for  a 
moment  on  the  man's  wet  forehead.  The  eyes 
closed. 

The  watching  crowd  had  grown;  men  hastened 
to  and  fro  on  the  back  fringe  of  it;  low  whispers 
ran  about.  A  man  whose  white  collar  pointed  to 
office  rather  than  factory,  had  appeared,  and  looked 
down  at  the  man  and  then  at  the  workmen  with 
an  anxious,  slanted  face.  The  shrieks  of  the  sister 
came  still,  and  the  workmen  shifted  uneasily  and 
looked  at  each  other  in  dismay.  The  shrieks  had 
all  the  monotony  of  madness  in  them. 

Raleigh  seized  the  girl's  wrists  in  a  firm  grip,  and 
looked  into  the  vacant  eyes. 

"Stop  it"  he  said  gently,  but  with  authority.  He 
repeated  it,  shaking  her  a  little.  Presently  he  saw 
the  staring  eyes  focus  slowly  to  his.  The  screams 
suddenly  stopped,  and  the  girl  toppled  over  against 
her  companion  with  a  little  gurgle. 

"Fainted"  said  Raleigh.  "Get  some  water — lay 
her  down."  This  to  the  boy  of  the  medicine  chest, 
who  leaped  away  and  vanished  through  the  gloom 
of  the  disused  shop  into  a  door  leading  to  the 
offices. 


The  First  Dissonance  7 

Raleigh  smiled  into  the  white  face  of  the  other 
girl.  "She's  all  right"  he  told  her.  "Best  thing 
she  could  have  done,  probably." 

The  boy  returned  almost  at  once,  bearing  a  cup  of 
water.  Raleigh's  comp/injon  took  it,  and  began 
bathing  the  unconscious  girl's  forehead  and  wrists. 
Through  the  tingling  of  his  nerves,  Raleigh  watched 
her,  conscious  of  pleasure  in  the  sure  movements 
of  her  well-shaped  hands,  the  instinctive  movements 
that  a  young  animal  might  make.  He  watched  the 
curves  of  her  neck,  under  a  curl  of  blue-burnished 
black  hair,  and  the  line  of  her  forehead  white  against 
the  girl's  black  dress  as  she  bent  soothingly  above 
her.  She  reminded  him  insistently  of  something 
closer  to  nature  than  most  civilized  humanity.  She 
was  very  real. 

He  glanced  at  the  office  man.  "How  long  ago 
did  this  happen?"  He  asked,  his  voice  dropped. 

"About  ten  minutes.  The  ambulance  ought  to  be 
here  now."  His  worried  face  turned  toward  the 
workmen,  who  talked  in  low  tones.  As  if  to  cap 
his  words,  the  clang  of  a  bell  sounded  above  the  whir 
of  a  motor  outside,  and  the  red-crossed  car  turned 
into  the  building.  Out  leaped  two  blue-clad  men, 
professionally  stolid.  Behind  them  a  slender  alert 
man  with  a  black  case.  He  bent  over  the  hurt  man, 
laid  back  the  coat,  and  lifted  fingers  wet  with  blood. 
He  looked  up  quickly. 

"No  need  of  the  hosp " 

Raleigh  violently  shook  his  head,  and  motioned  to 
the  sister,  whose  eyes  had  just  opened  again.  The 


8  Chanting  Wheels 

doctor  nodded.  Raleigh  came  close  and  the  work 
men  crowded  around. 

"Fifteen  minutes — possibly  an  hour — not  more," 
with  terseness.  "Ribs  crushed — lungs  punctured  all 
over — bladder  broken,  I  should  say — "  he  grimaced. 
"How  did  such  a  thing  happen?"  His  eyes  were  on 
Raleigh.  He  passed  the  glance  to  the  office  man, 
who  turned  to  one  of  the  workmen.  The  latter 
shook  his  head. 

"Don't  know"  he  said,  with  a  furtive  eye  on  the 
office  man.  "I  seen  him  throw  out  the  press,  an' 
crawl  into  the  pressin'  surface  to  fix  suthin'.  Next 
I  knowed,  I  hear  him  hollerin'.  Seems  like  the 
throw  must  not  a  been  clean  off,  an'  jarred  back,  or 
else  it  was  wore.  I  grabbed's  quick's  I  could.  But 
it  had  got  him." 

"Where's  his  cousin  ?  He  works  here  too.  They's 
buddies"  spoke  up  another. 

"Dunno.    Maybe  on  another  shift." 

As  the  two  attendants  lifted  the  stretcher,  the 
sister  raised  her  head,  and  sprang  up  dizzily,  with 
a  chocked  torrent  of  foreign  words.  Quickly  the 
other  girl  slipped  an  arm  round  her;  the  sister 
clutched  her  hand  convulsively.  They  followed  the 
stretcher  into  the  ambulance,  and  Raleigh  as  a  matter 
of  course  stepped  in  with  them.  As  he  took  his  seat, 
he  heard  the  office  man  speak  to  the  men  of  the  shop. 

"There's  no  need  to  spread  this  around,  you 
know"  he  said  meaningly,  looking  at  them  through 
narrowed  lids.  The  men  looked  down,  nodded,  and 
went  away. 


The  First  Dissonance  9 

In  the  semi-darkness  of  the  ambulance  Raleigh 
heard  the  sister's  sobs.  He  turned  to  the  doctor 
beside  him. 

"Is  there  nothing  that  can  be  done  for  him?  If 
it  is  a  question  of  money " 

The  little  doctor  sighed.  To  him  death  had  be 
come  so  casual  an  acquaintance,  that  he  always 
wondered  at  the  importunity  of  people,  their  rebel 
lion  to  the  last  ditch. 

"It's  not  a  question  of  anything  but  minutes,"  he 
answered  gently.  "The  boy  would  be  a  helpless 
burden  if  he  lived.  This  is  better.  He  may  die  on 
the  way  home." 

But  he  did  not.  The  ambulance  stopped  before 
a  row  of  brown  frame  houses,  as  dingy  as  old  shoes. 
The  man  was  carried  into  the  house.  Raleigh  fol 
lowing,  glanced  round  at  the  drab  floor  and  walls, 
decked  here  and  there  with  flamboyant  grocery 
calendars  and  prints  from  Sunday  supplements. 

They  carried  the  man  into  a  small  room,  close 
and  heavy-smelling,  and  laid  him  on  the  bed.  The 
doctor  drew  up  a  chair  and  waited.  The  men  went 
out.  The  girl,  her  breath  coming  in  gasps,  flung 
onto  her  knees  beside  him.  Raleigh  and  his  com 
panion  drew  together.  Somehow  she  found  his  hand. 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  sound  save  the  whist 
ling  breath  of  the  unconscious  man  and  the  sobs  of 
his  sister.  Suddenly  she  raised  her  head,  looked 
at  them  imploringly,  and  spoke  in  the  same  strange 
tongue.  They  eyed  each  other  helplessly.  Then 
Raleigh  addressed  her  in  bad  French  and  flowing 


io  Chanting  Wheels 

Italian,  to  be  met  with  a  shake  of  the  head.  He  dug 
into  the  back  of  his  mind  for  his  scant  German. 
This  brought  a  rush  of  color  to  her  face.  In  a 
broken  dialect  she  spoke. 

"Does  he — does  he  die?" 

Raleigh's  head  bent.  "He  does,  Fraulein,"  he 
said  gently.  She  seemed  to  know,  for  she  nodded 
dully.  Then 

"Soon?" 

"Soon,  Fraulein." 

As  if  in  answer  the  man  on  the  bed  stirred  and 
opened  his  eyes.  With  a  strange  light  in  them  he 
looked  at  Raleigh.  Then  they  sought  his  sister's, 
and  in  gasps,  he  spoke.  His  undamaged  hand 
trembled  to  her  bent  head,  with  an  effort  that  sent 
the  sweat  pouring  from  his  forehead.  As  Raleigh 
turned  away,  his  eyes  full,  the  man  smiled,  a 
tortured  smile  with  somehow  a  glory  of  youth 
round  it.  As  with  passing  sunshine  the  little  room 
gleamed  a  moment.  Then  his  hand  clenched  on  the 
girl's  head,  grew  heavy,  dropped. 

Raleigh  drew  his  companion  gently  to  the  door, 
then  turned  back.  She  was  looking  with  dry  hard 
eyes  at  the  face  on  the  bed,  suddenly  relaxed  into 
peace. 

"Fraulein — is  there  anything — can   I " 

She  rose  with  the  dignity  of  tragedy. 

"No  mein  herr,  you — I  cannot  thank — "  she 
trembled.  Raleigh  pressed  her  hand  and  hurried 
out. 

His  companion  was  leaning  against  the  door,  cry- 


The  First  Dissonance  n 

ing  gently.  As  a  child  might,  she  turned  at  his 
touch  and  buried  her  face  against  his  coat  as  he 
put  his  arms  round  her.  Presently  she  lifted  a 
flushed  face,  wet  with  tears. 

"Why — why  do  such  awful  things  happen?" 
she  whispered.  "It  makes  me  believe  there  isn't 
any  God." 


Raleigh  walked  slowly  down  the  road  to  the 
trolley.  He  could  not  face  his  uncle  now — tomor 
row  would  be  time  enough.  He  had  no  appoint 
ment.  His  mind  swirled  with  raw  sensation; 
pictures  raced  across  his  vision.  They  mixed;  yet 
curiously  remained  separate,  like  threads  of  dark 
oil  in  a  goblet  of  champagne.  The  pulp-crushed 
feet  of  the  man — the  mechanical  regular  shrieks 
of  the  girl — the  twisted  agony  of  the  deathbed — 
these  traced  dark  coils  through  the  glow  of  the  girl's 
presence.  He  remembered  the  strange  drops  and 
pauses  of  her  rich  voice,  the  instinctively  sure 
movements  of  her  hands  and  body,  her  mouth,  with 
its  wreathing  laughter  lines.  These  pictures  sank 
before  the  feeling  of  the  hurt  man's  corded,  limply 
muscled  arm,  warm  and  nerveless  as  he  shot  the 
hypodermic — the  officeman's  narrowed  lids  as  he 
addressed  the  workmen — the  horror  in  the  stolid 
faces  of  them  .... 

He  stared  back  at  the  Hydraulic  before  he 
boarded  the  car  to  his  hotel.  Its  squat  immensity, 
the  strange  shapes  of  gigantic  towers,  huge  iron 


12  Chanting  Wheels 

funnels,  smoke-escapes  like  crooked  metallic  cox 
combs,  globular  iron  monsters  vomiting  smoke — 
all  took  on,  as  he  looked,  another  significance,  and 
coalesced,  as  the  separate  voices  of  an  orchestra, 
into  one  tremendous  impression.  The  many- 
throated  roar  of  its  voices  blurred  into  one  menac 
ing  tone,  in  which  lurked  words  barely  escaping 
coherent  and  awful  utterance.  The  strangely  shaped 
furnaces  and  nameless  machines  assumed  a  violent 
livingness,  as  if  some  monstrous  passion,  born  out 
of  machinery  itself,  had  distorted  them  into  male 
volent  attitudes  and  tortured  shapes.  They  seemed 
crouched  for  strife.  Raleigh  could  hear  their 
speech;  like  a  sound  arising  out  of  another  con 
sciousness,  he  heard  their  malignant  threatening 
shapes  cutting  the  sky.  They  seemed  intent  on 
watching  with  suspended  anger  the  tiny  figures 
toiling  among  their  feet.  They  seemed  waiting  .to 
be  freed  .  .  .  Perhaps  one  of  them,  for  a  mo 
ment,  had  been  ...  he  thought  of  the  crushed 
body  .  .  . 

The  girl's  cool  deep  voice  drifted  over  his  heated 
mind,  and  the  illusion  vanished.  He  thought  of  her 
eyes,  black-fringed  and  deep,  and  of  the  warmth  of 
her  in  his  arms  as  she  had  cried  into  his  coat. 

He  shook  himself,  and  rubbed  his  hands  across 
his  face. 

"Fool"  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he  boarded  the 
trolley,  "I  don't  even  know  her  name."  The  trolley 
bore  him  away. 


The  First  Dissonance  13 

Eleanor  Grayson  walked  hastily  toward  the  house, 
her  face  deep  with  sympathy.  It  was  the  noon 
period,  and  with  her  came  kind,  hush-voiced  men, 
who  creaked  awkwardly  into  the  silent  little  room. 
Beside  her  was  the  girl  of  the  morning.  Eleanor 
was  speaking. 

"It  was  so  kind  of  you — you  must  have  made  it 
much  easier  for  her"  she  had  been  saying.  Her 
voice  had  the  light  ease  of  her  manner,  of  the  way 
she  wore  her  very  tailored  clothes  and  her  small 
veiled  hat.  It  was  the  ease  of  generations  behind 
her. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  do  anything  much.  It  was  this  man 
I  ran  into.  My,  he's  a  peach"  came  the  rich  con 
tralto — a  bronzed  voice,  with  deep  green  lights  in  it, 
decided  Eleanor.  They  reached  the  house,  behind 
the  men,  and  the  girl  of  the  morning  stopped. 

"I  guess  you  won't  need  me  any  more"  she  said. 
"I'll  be  getting  back  to  my  brother.  I  was  coming 
over  to  meet  him  when  I  ran  into  all  this."  She 
looked  at  Eleanor  with  frank  curiosity  and  admira 
tion  in  her  vivid,  rather  boyish  face.  They  made  a 
quaint  contrast  for  any  painter — the  one  polished 
and  finished  like  a  miniature,  gleaming  without 
hardness,  the  other  untaught  as  an  apple  blossom 
on  a  branch — and  as  lovely.  "You're  Miss  Gray- 
son,  aren't  you?"  she  asked  a  little  shyly,  the  smile 
breaking  out.  "I've  heard  of  you  lots.  Everybody 
in  the  shop  likes  you."  She  became  suddenly  self- 
conscious,  nodded  and  went  away  quickly. 

In  the  house  sat  the  sister,  her  arms  flung  across 


14  Chanting  Wheels 

her  face,  bowed  on  the  bed.  At  the  window  stood 
a  pale,  slender  youth,  his  narrow  face  consumed 
with  the  fire  of  a  pair  of  great  eyes.  He  was  the 
cousin,  the  "buddy."  To  him  the  dead  man  had 
been  brother,  protector,  hero-friend  in  this  strange 
land  of  hurry  and  noise,  of  toil  and  great  weariness. 

As  the  men  tiptoed  into  the  front  room,  he  turned 
to  them,  and  they  shrank  before  the  fury  in  the 
white  face.  There  was  no  grief.  It  was  burned 
away.  He  spoke  to  them  gently,  listened  silently 
when  they  told  him  the  company  was  paying  all 
funeral  expenses,  and  when  they  went  out,  turned 
to  the  window  again.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
smoke  that  hung  in  the  sky  in  the  direction  of  the 
shops,  but  what  he  saw  was  another  picture. 

He  had  been  summoned  from  work  as  soon  as  he 
could  be  found.  He  had  run  out  of  the  shop  en 
trance,  knowing  the  worst.  As  he  had  started  to 
cross  the  street,  a  big  motor  had  blocked  his  way. 
It  slowed,  pulled  to  the  curb,  and  a  man  got  out  of 
it,  a  tall,  well-built  man,  with  prematurely  white 
hair  and  a  young,  spare  face.  The  man  was  laugh 
ing  to  someone  inside  the  car,  and  flung  a  sentence 
over  his  shoulder. 

"Just  be  a  minute,  Jim.  I've  got  to  sign  some 
checks  and  dictate  one  letter."  He  strode  away  with 
power  visible  in  every  line  of  him,  from  columnar 
neck  to  long  legs. 

The  boy  had  watched  him.  He  had  dimly  real 
ized  that  this  was  one  of  the  gods  who  controlled 
his  world — perhaps  the  chief  of  the  gods.  He  was 


The  First  Dissonance  15 

smiling.  He  was  rich — happy — and  he  was  alive. 
The  choking  grief  in  his  heart  over  his  cousin, 
horribly  killed,  turned  suddenly  to  rage,  and  far 
back  in  his  brain,  the  sensitive,  imagination-laden 
brain  of  a  dreamer,  something  clicked,  and  began 
to  whir  with  a  softness  almost  unheard. 

The  man's  smiling,  assured  face  had  swung  be 
fore  him  as  he  had  bent  above  the  still  body  of  his 
cousin,  and  had  kissed  the  white  forehead,  drying 
his  tears,  turning  him  white  and  still.  The  soft 
whirring  in  his  brain  never  stopped  again. 


CHAPTER  II 

FAMILY  PORTRAITS 

NEXT  day  David  Harde  leaned  forward  in  his 
desk  chair,  and  grasped  the  letter  more  firmly 
in  his  well-kept  hands.  His  brows,  lifting  as  they 
did  under  concentration,  arched  his  square  brown 
face  into  a  belying  expression  of  vacancy.  Once 
he  chuckled.  Now  and  then  he  frowned,  and  once 
smiled  with  a  certain  grimness.  The  letter  was 
written  on  faun-colored  paper,  and  the  writing,  big 
and  black,  looked  as  if  Chinese  ideographs  had  been 
set  in  horizontal  lines  across  the  page.  Its  postmark 
was  a  week  old,  and  there  were  tell-tale  pencil 
streaks  on  the  envelope,  that  betrayed  to  David  that 
it  had  been  carried  about  unposted. 
The  letter  ran  thus : 

".  .  .  so  don't  think  that  I  am  for  a  moment 
giving  up  my  plan  of  being  a  composer,  for  I  am  not. 
I  mean  to  succeed  in  it,  for  I  love  it  better  than  any 
thing  in  the  world.  But  just  at  present,  I  am  having 
difficulty  in  making  publishers  see  the  merit  of  my 
part  of  the  field.  The  development  of  the  archaic 
modes,  and  their  harmonic  adaptation  and  motivation 

16 


Family  Portraits  17 

to  the  purposes  of  modern  orchestral  structure"  (David 
frowned  and  scratched  his  head  indignantly)  "is  quite 
new. 

"Then,  too,  there  is  the  question  of  money.  As  such 
it  means  nothing  to  me."  (David  chuckled.)  "No 
artist  can  put  gain  before  achievement  and  still  follow 
with  clear  eyes  the  white  flame  of  the  hilltops." 

"Talks  like  he  was  in  the  City  Gas,"  muttered 
David,  taking  a  new  grip  on  the  letter,  and  ruffling 
up  the  white  hair  according  ill  with  his  tanned  skin 
and  clear,  brown  eyes. 

"Still,  it  is  a  humiliating  fact  that  we  cling  to  this 
plane,  and  the  body  must  be  fed. 

"So,  unless  you  tell  me  outright  that  it  is  impossible, 
I  am  coming  out  to  work  for  you.  I  went  once  to  a 
foundry  with  an  artist  pal  of  mine  to  get  the  light 
effects.  It  was  magnificent — the  great  dipper  of 
molten  metal  at  the  end  of  the  swaying  arm,  gleamed 
like  rubies  in  a  sable  hand." 

Here  David  snatched  a  cigarette,  and  began  to 
puff  furiously. 

"I  should  like  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know.  I 
should  like  to  be  part  of  such  flaming  strength,  to  hear 
the  sounding  symphonies  of  the  great  chanting  wheels. 

"Of  course,  my  main  purpose  will  continue  to  be  my 
songs,  but  I  hope  to  profit  by  the  exercise  of  the  work. 
I  shall  arrive  next  week,  Orpheus  and  you  being 
willing. 

"Your  affectionate  nephew, 

"DANTE  ROSSETTI  RALEIGH." 


1 8  Chanting  Wheels 

David  laid  down  the  letter,  and  sank  back  in  his 
chair,  thumb  and  finger  caressing  a  chin  like  a  small 
box.  He  reflected  on  the  possible  repetition  of 
history.  Bob  Raleigh — a  faint  smile  lifted  his  thin, 
well-cut  lips  as  the  image  of  the  boy's  father  swung 
before  him — Bob  with  his  handsome  big  frame  and 
dark  eyes  with  their  inward  dreams.  What  a  mat 
ing  of  wings  to  feet,  of  a  will-o'-the  wisp  to  a 
hearthfire,  when  he  had  married  Alicia,  sweet  and 
practical,  with  all  David's  own  efficiency,  and  also 
his  limitations;  who  had  worshipped  her  husband 
and  mended  him,  with  blind  awe  and  maternal  pity, 
through  all  the  failures.  David  remembered  how 
he  had  nearly  disrupted  the  little  office  in  the  old 
days,  before  the  Hydraulic  had  spread  roaring 
across  adjacent  blocks — remembered,  with  a  deep 
ening  of  the  reminiscent  smile,  how  he  had  once 
sent  Bob  forth  for  contracts  to  another  town,  and 
after  three  days'  silence,  had  confronted  him,  the 
world  well  lost,  writing  a  sonata  with  a  French 
violinist,  whom  chance  had  shoved  across  his  path 
at  the  hotel. 

Poor  Bob.  Pneumonia's  swift  annihilation  had 
brought  David  genuine  relief  with  its  real  sorrow. 
But  Alicia,  as  her  boy,  always  puzzling,  grew  more 
and  more  the  counterpart  of  his  father,  finally  had 
given  up  the  prospective  struggle  with  another  tem 
perament,  and  quietly  died,  leaving  the  boy  just 
enough  to  make  four  years  in  a  Berkshire  college 
possible  to  him. 

Reports  of  those  four  years  had  come  to  David, 


Family  Portraits  19 

some  from  the  boy  himself,  more  from  rumor,  be 
cause  he  had  speedily  developed  into  the  kind  of 
person  round  whom  college  weaves  a  legend,  em 
broidered  by  succeeding  undergraduate  generations. 
Freshmen  were  told,  how,  when  the  team  lacked 
four  yards  of  a  decisive  touchdown  against  Am- 
herst,  he  had  been  caught  by  the  quarterback,  gazing 
into  the  western  sunset,  and  quoting  Shelley  dream 
ily  to  a  shocked  opponent  at  right  end.  After  three 
years  of  a  cool,  appalling  unexpected  game,  he 
had  renounced  the  gridiron  because  he  wanted  to 
write  cantatas  for  the  choir  and  comedies  for  the 
Glee  Club.  To  this,  despite  anathemas  from  his  fra 
ternity,  and  malediction  from  his  coach,  he  had 
stuck.  He  had  received  the  only  A  ever  granted 
by  Baldy  Hutton  in  Literature  8,  and  had  failed  to 
graduate  because  he  refused  to  take  a  semester  of 
compulsory  mathematics. 

He  had  been  ridiculed,  fervently  admired,  and 
not  a  little  feared  by  his  classmates,  and  had  had, 
in  fine,  quite  the  time  that  any  undergraduate  has 
who  dares  to  be  an  individual  in  an  undergraduate 
community. 

All  this  flitted  through  David's  mind,  and  later 
things,  tales  from  his  regiment,  of  a  French  gen 
eral  who  had  sat  beside  Raleigh  in  a  tumbledown 
chateau  near  Baccarat,  while  the  American  sergeant 
played  queer  things  on  a  scorched  grand  piano,  and 
his  colonel,  unfortunately  entering  and  incautiously 
speaking,  had  been  furiously  shushed  to  abashed 
silence  by  his  French  superior. 


20  Chanting  Wheels 


Well- 


He  pressed  his  button  and  said  to  the  smoothly 
efficient  woman  who  had  glided  from  an  inner 
office 

"Call  Culhane  in  from  the  hot-press  shop,  will 
you,  Miss  Thompson?" 

Presently  there  came  an  increase  in  the  subdued 
roar  seeping  through  many  walls  to  David's  office, 
as  the  shop  door  beyond  his  own  opened  with  a 
huge  puff  of  sound.  David  never  heard  it,  this 
shuttle-slash  of  shouting  machinery,  without  a  cor 
responding  enlargement  of  force  within  himself. 
These  were  the  voices  of  his  own  particular  chil 
dren.  Less  successful  men  said  that  David  was 
hard  as  his  steel,  and  relentless  as  his  hydraulic 
presses.  Those  who  knew  him  better  realized  in 
him  the  driving  force  of  the  creator,  be  he  poet  or 
manufacturer. 

David's  own  ground-glass  door  swung  to  admit 
Culhane,  bare  of  throat,  head,  and  arm,  who 
sauntered  to  the  desk,  wiping  his  hands  on  his 
trousers.  It  was  David's  policy  to  ignore  formalism 
as  much  as  possible,  and  his  men  loved  him  for  it. 
Hence  Culhane's  ease. 

"Morning,  Pat,"  nodded  David.  "Got  number  2 
blower  going  yet?" 

The  foreman  grinned,  and  thrust  back  a  lock  of 
dangling  black  hair.  "Going  fine  now,"  he  replied. 
"It's  them  foreigners,  Mr.  Harde.  Conling  told 
me  he  thought  one  or  two  of  them  was  monkeying 
around  it  and  pulled  the  pins,  and  that  dropped  it. 


Family  Portraits  21 

We  fired  Molowski.  He  was  the  worst — always 
shootin'  off  his  mouth." 

The  problem  in  the  shops  had  grown  with  the 
post-bellum  growth  of  everything  but  efficiency  and 
commonsense,  into  a  threatening  cloud,  whose  dark 
stormcenter  was  the  foreign  element.  Endless  small 
things  were  adding  to  a  general  atmosphere  of  dis 
content,  and  Molowski,  a  Russian  with  suspiciously 
too  much  mentality  for  his  position,  according  to 
Culhane,  had  finally  said  too  much,  and  been  fired. 
David  frowned. 

"Well,  tell  us  about  it  at  the  council  Monday 
night.  Now  I've  got  something  else  on  my  mind. 
My  nephew  is  coming  out  here  to  work.  I'm  going 
to  put  him  out  with  you." 

Culhane  stared.  "With  me,  sir?  What  does  he 
want  to  do?" 

"He"  David  consulted  the  letter.  "He  wants  to 
'hear  the  sounding  symphonies  of  the  great  chanting 
wheels' !" 

Culhane's  eyebrows  met  in  a  tangle  of  black  above 
eyes  like  blue,  black-fringed  saucers.  "What?" 

David  chuckled.  "That's  what  he  says,  any 
how.  You  see,  it's  like  this.  He's  a  good  enough 
boy,  but  he's  got  all  sorts  of  fool  ideas — wants  to 
write  music  and  all  that.  No  sense  as  far  as  I  can 
tell.  Went  broke  down  in  New  York."  David 
grinned  reminiscently.  "And  he  says  he's  comin' 
out  here.  So  put  him  wherever  there's  room  for 
him.  He's  husky  and  harmless,  I  guess,  but  don't 
know  a  shear-blade  from  a  die-casing.  Keep  an 


22  Chanting  Wheels 

eye  on  him — but  don't  let  it  out  he's  my  nephew. 
Call  him  hard  if  he  needs  it.  Let  me  know."  He 
began  opening  mail. 

The  young  Irishman  took  the  hint  and  left.  He 
brushed  a  dextrous  mechanic's  hand,  supple,  spatu- 
late  of  thumb,  across  his  forehead,  in  perplexity. 
"Chanting  wheels,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  It 
wakened  for  an  instant  some  Celtic  cell,  responsive 
to  imagery,  in  his  blueprinted  mind.  "Chanting 
wheels !"  Then  he  laughed,  and  promptly  forgot  it, 
nor  did  he  think  of  it  again  till  long  after. 


An  hour  or  so  later,  Miss  Hunter,  guardian  of 
the  Hydraulic  private  switchboard,  laid  down  her 
novel,  back  up,  upon  the  control  buttons,  and  shifted 
her  gum  from  the  left  bi-cuspid  to  the  right  rear 
molar,  before  turning  wearily  to  the  little  wicket  at 
her  left,  through  which  the  world  asked  permission 
to  enter  the  Hydraulic.  Since  the  memory  of  the 
oldest  janitor,  Miss  Hunter  had  been  thus — a  heavy- 
lidded  sybil  a-top  her  stool,  murmuring  from  time 
to  time  "Hydraulic"  into  nasal  distances,  and  charm 
ing  with  expert  fingers  the  writhing  serpents  of  the 
switch-cords. 

She  swung  toward  the  wicket, — then  stared,  then 
patted  her  hair.  The  gum,  through  some  secret 
lingual  manipulation,  became  quiescent. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  with  the  graciousness 
only  accorded  one  type  of  person  in  her  catalog — a 
handsome  man.  Maizie  Gay,  recognizing  the  tone, 


Family  Portraits  23 

stopped  on  her  way  to  the  stock  room  to  see  the 
cause. 

The  face  framed  in  the  wicket  broke  into  a  smile, 
and  the  line  of  a  Stetson  hat  gave  place  to  a  white 
forehead  and  crisp  light  hair  as  the  hat  came  off. 

"Is  Mr.  Harde  in?"  came  in  a  deep,  curiously 
husky  voice,  with  something  of  the  reedy  tang  of  an 
oboe  in  it. 

"Yes,  sir " 

"Oh  that's  good.  'Fraid  he  might  be  out.  Will 
you  tell  him  I  want  to  see  him?" 

Mercury,  met  at  Olympus'  edge  by  a  daring 
mortal  saying,  "Say,  call  Jupiter  down  here  a  min 
ute,  will  yuh?  I've  got  a  fine  proposition  for  him," 
might  have  experienced  Miss  Hunter's  emotions. 

"Say,"  she  snapped.  "Who  do  you  think  you 
are,  anyhow?" 

The  grin  widened.  "I  can't  discuss  introspective 
personalities  through  a  hole  in  .the  fence,"  said  the 
voice,  and  before  Miss  Hunter  could  chew,  the  door 
beside  the  wicket  had  opened,  and  a  very  tall  young 
man  stepped  inside. 

One  knew  he  had  never  been  in  a  place  like  the 
Hydraulic  before — Miss  Hunter  recognized  it  dimly. 
It  was  not  only  his  clothes,  though  the  young  men 
of  the  Hydraulic  didn't  wear  soft-collared  white 
shirts,  long  fur  coats,  or  jade-green  mufflers,  of 
flashing  silk.  No,  it  was  not  his  clothes — it  was  a 
certain  impetuosity,  a  curious  detachment  of  man 
ner,  as  of  one  who  had  never  known  the  discipline 
of  denial,  or  were  at  all  conscious  of  conventional 


24  Chanting  Wheels 

limitations.  Miss  Hunter  felt  as  if  a  mountain 
brook  had  tumbled  into  her  corridor,  and  threatened 
to  rise  foaming  about  her. 

"You  shouldn't  have  come  in  without  being  told," 
she  said,  but  without  conviction.  She  was  quite 
sure  this  person  would  respect  no  property  rights. 
He  stopped  gazing  about,  head  up,  like  a  dog  in  a 
new  place,  and  swung  to  her,  still  smiling. 

"Well,  I  can't  go  out  now,  can  I?  Where's  Mr. 
Harde?  I  know  he's  expecting  me.  He  wrote  me 
to  come." 

Miss  Hunter  spun  to  the  board  like  a  teetotum, 
seized  a  cord,  and  rang  David's  office  violently. 
"I'll  tell  him  you're  here,  sir,"  she  said,  prim- 
mouthed,  but  the  boy  was  already  headed  towards 
David's  door,  marked  "private,"  flinging  over  his 
shoulder  "Thanks  awfully,  but  don't  bother."  He 
opened  the  door  and  disappeared. 

Miss  Thompson,  tabulating  correspondence  in 
her  own  little  office  behind  this  door,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  tall  figure,  heard  a  husky  "good  morn 
ing,"  received  green  and  gold  and  brown  impres 
sions  in  dizzying  succession,  and  saw  David's  own 
door  open  and  close  upon  an  unannounced  young 
man.  She  rose  in  as  near  panic  as  Miss  Thompson 
can  achieve,  and  opened  the  door  herself,  to  discover 
the  tall  youth  beaming  upon  David,  and  patting  his 
shoulder.  She  returned  to  the  mail,  and  wondered 
a  little. 

David  surveyed  his  nephew  as  one  would  an 
amiable  puppy,  and  motioned  to  a  chair. 


Family  Portraits  25 

"Sit  down,  Dante,"  he  said.  "I  just  got  your 
letter — what  I  could  read  of  it.  You  don't  look 
exactly  poverty-stricken." 

"Relics  of  college  splendor,  Uncle  Dave,"  he 
laughed.  Then  eagerly,  "When  do  I  go  to  work?" 

David  sobered.  "I'm  going  to  put  you  out  in  the 
shops,  Dante,"  he  said.  "That's  what  you  wanted, 
as  near  as  I  could  tell  by  your  letter." 

"In  one  of  those  magnificent  big  places,  all  wheels 
and  red  hot  metal,  and  crashing  sound  ?"  interrupted 
his  nephew  eagerly. 

David  grinned,  and  lit  a  cigarette  before  replying. 
The  similarity  of  attitude  to  the  old  Raleigh  caught 
him,  as  the  boy  leaned  forward.  "Better  jaw, 
though,"  he  thought,  shaking  out  his  match. 

"Well — I  never  heard  the  hot-press  shop  described 
like  that,"  he  answered.  "But  that's  where  you're 
going." 

"Oh,  that's  fine.  I  was  so  afraid  you'd  tuck  me 
into  an  office  with  stuffy  clerks,  and  long  rows  of 
figures  in  books.  I'd  like  to  start  tomorrow.  When 
can  I  begin?" 

David  pressed  the  button  on  his  desk.  "I'll  in 
troduce  you  to  Culhane.  I  was  just  talking  to  him 
about  you.  He's  foreman  of  the  hot-press  room,  and 
will  take  care  of  you." 

"Culhane,  Culhane — I  wonder  if  he's  a  descen 
dant  of  Cuchulain?" 

"Who?"  snorted  David. 

"Cuchulain — the  great  Celtic  hero.  You  know 
Yeats'  poem,  'And  Cuchulain,  white  and  broad  of 


26  Chanting  Wheels 

brow,  with  his  hair  like  a  cloud  of  night,  went  over 
the  land  to  victory/  Remember  ?" 

"Can't  say  I  do,"  retorted  David  dryly,  as  the  shop 
door  opened  and  the  roar  of  the  machines  suddenly 
puffed  to  them.  Raleigh's  head  lifted  sharply  at  the 
sound.  David  noted  it. 

"That's  your  'chanting  wheels',"  he  grinned,  won 
dering  what  this  vivid  young  person  would  do  with 
grease  and  dirt  and  fatigue,  conscious  of  a  queer 
pang  smothered  before  recognized.  The  boy  was 
listening. 

"Curious  mixture  of  rhythms  and  tone,"  he 
breathed,  intently.  "Seven — four  on  nine — eight,  I 
should  say.  Mostly  toned  to  E  flat.  Overtones  too 
strong." 

David,  considering  this  perhaps  a  devotional  rite, 
politely  ignored  it.  Culhane  came  in  again,  his  dark 
hair  tousled,  and  his  face  streaked  with  grease. 
David  presented  the  two  men,  and  smiled  at  the 
contrast,  between  his  tall  nephew,  chiselled  to  the 
fineness  of  a  Mercury,  glowing  with  color,  and  the 
foreman — shorter,  thickly  muscled,  with  his  me 
chanic's  square,  fine  forehead,  his  impudent  nose, 
and  his  clean  jaws.  Raleigh  burst  into  instant 
speech. 

"Awfully  glad  to  meet  you,"  he  said,  ignoring  the 
other's  attempt  not  to  meet  his  outstretched  hand 
with  his  own  dirty  one.  "You're  my  boss,  aren't 
you  ?  I  hope  I  don't  fall  down  a  drain,  or  you  have 
to  chuck  me  for  getting  wound  up  in  a  cog-wheel. 
What  do  I  do?  When  do  I  start ?" 


Family  Portraits  27 

Culhane  blinked  under  the  deluge.  David  waved 
them  off.  "He's  in  your  hands  now." 

"I  can  put  you  on  to  number  i  shift,"  meditated 
the  foreman, — "yes,  on  to  press  five,  to  take  Mo- 
lowski's  place.  Be  around  at  seven  in  the  morning, 
and  I'll  see  you  get  fixed  up  with  a  badge  and  num 
ber."  He  surveyed  the  boy  with  a  shake  of  the  head 
and  a  smile,  his  eyes  taking  in  the  long  fur  coat,  the 
white  finesse  of  the  shirt,  and  dwelling  upon  the 
jade-green  silk  muffler. 

"It's  mighty  dirty  work,  and  hot  too,"  he  volun 
teered.  "Think  you  can  stand  it?" 

Raleigh's  smile  slowed  and  altered,  "Why 
not?"  he  asked  quietly,  but  with  a  direct  gaze  and 
a  tang  of  bronze  in  his  voice  that  Culhane  well 
knew. 

Culhane  hastily  amended.  "Oh — you'll  get  along 
all  right,  only" — he  hesitated,  and  then  went  on  with 
a  stubborn  honesty, — "you  don't  look  like  you'd  fit 
with  that  gang  of  men  in  the  hot  press.  They're  a 
rough  lot.  Mostly  foreigners." 

Raleigh  laughed.  "I'm  rather  fond  of  foreigners," 
he  said,  picking  up  his  hat.  "Good-bye,  Uncle  Dave. 
You're  a  peach  to  take  me  in.  Oh,  by  the  way,  do  I 
have  to  join  a  union  ?" 

It  stopped  both  men.     There  was  a  little  silence. 

"Can  if  you  like,"  said  Pat  shortly.  "I  suppose 
you'll  want  to,"  feeling  uncertainly  that  anyone  cap 
able  of  that  scarf  would  take  as  well  to  industrial 
ultras. 

Raleigh  spoke  astonishingly.     "I  think  they're  a 


28  Chanting  Wheels 

silly  tyranny.  Fancy  not  being  able  to  work  when 
you  want  to,  and  for  whom !" 

The  other  two  exchanged  glances.  "We  aren't 
talking  much  about  that  sort  of  thing  in  the  shops 
now,"  said  David,  unmistakably. 

"Oh,  I  won't  stir  up  anything.  Art  has  no  place 
for  violence." 

In  the  corridor,  Pat  turned  to  the  shop.  "See  you 
in  the  morning,"  he  said  briefly. 

"Delighted."  Raleigh  eyed  him  as  a  painter  his 
subject.  "Yes,  you  do  look  like  Cuchulain — like  Kay 
Neilson's  picture  of  him." 

"Who's  he — some  new  knock-out?"  said  Culhane 
suspiciously. 

"No.  A  great  man — no  one — a  hero  of  Celtic 
mythology.  It  doesn't  matter."  He  held  out  his 
hand.  "I'm  awfully  glad  to  have  met  you,"  he  said 
with  engaging  candor,  "I  think  we'll  get  along  beauti 
fully.  Am  I  to  call  you  'Mister'  ?" 

Culhane's  face  split  suddenly  into  a  grin,  baring 
his  white,  even  teeth.  This  fur-coated  young  patri 
cian  calling  him  "Mister" ! 

"Pat,"  he  said  briefly.  "Culhane,  without  the 
handle,  in  the  shops." 

"I  just  wanted  to  be  sure"  returned  Raleigh,  draw 
ing  on  his  gloves.  "I  once  called  my  major  'Toodles' 
in  a  moment  of  forget  fulness,  and  was  nearly  court- 
martialled.  By  the  way,  do  you  know  any  place  that 
I  can  live?" 

Pat  reflected  a  moment.  "You  might  try  the 
Y.M.C.A."  He  said  thoughtfully.  "It's  about  the 


Family  Portraits  29 

best  bet,  I'm  thinkin'.  Dan  Mahoney  lives  there. 
Says  they  lay  the  religion  on  sorta  thick  sometimes 
without  seemin'  to  at  all,  but  he's  out  all  the  time. 
I  'spect  you'd  be  too.  Don't  know  as  it  would  be 
swell  enough  for  you,"  he  finished,  grinning. 

Raleigh  flushed  a  little,  then  laughed.  "My  dear 
man,  anything  with  walls  and  a  roof  and  a  bathtub 
looks  like  a  house  of  many  mansions  to  me  at  this 
particular  moment.  I  guess  the  Y  is  a  good  stunt. 
I  have  always  avoided  them,  rather,  but  I  guess  it's 
the  best  thing.  They'll  have  a  piano  there  I  can 
use,  too.  Thanks  for  telling  me;  I'll  try  it  out."  He 
held  out  his  hand.  "See  you  in  the  morning  then." 

But  Culhane  did  not  go.  He  rubbed  his  chin  and 
grinned.  "You're  the  first  man  I  ever  hired  that 
didn't  ask  me  one  thing,"  he  said  smiling. 

Raleigh's  brow  furrowed.  "I'm  sorry. — This  is 
all  very  new  to  me.  Have  I  been  obtuse  ?" 

"Been — well,  I  don't  know.  You  never  asked  me 
what  you  was  to  get." 

"Oh,  shades  of  Orpheus,  of  course.  How  stupid 
of  me.  What's  the  noble  stipend?" 

Culhane  laughed  outright.  "Well,  the  hot-press 
men  gets  about  $8  to  $10  a  day  now,  counting  bo 
nuses — time  and  a  half  for  overtime." 

Raleigh's  mouth  opened.  "Why" — he  did  mental 
calculation,  slowly,  "Why,  that's  about  $300  a 
month." 

"Sure.    Ain't  it  enough  ?" 

"Enough?"  The  boy  rocked  with  delight.  "Why, 
that's  more  than  Cunningwhite  gets  for  his  musical 


30  Chanting  Wheels 

Criticisms — and  nearly  three  times  what  the  president 
of  the  American  Philosophical  Society,  who  taught 
me  in  school,  gets.  I'm  rich — I'm  rolling  in  wealth !" 

Culhane  shouted.  "Good-night,"  he  roared,  and 
still  chuckling,  went  off  into  the  shops,  with  a  sudden 
screech  of  metal  cutting  the  air  as  he  swung  open 
the  heavy  shop  door. 

Raleigh  listened  intently ;  only  for  a  moment  came 
the  flaring  roar  of  sound.  Then  the  shop  door  swung 
behind  Pat,  and  the  semi-stillness  returned.  But  in 
that  one  instant  had  come  the  mingling  of  hundreds 
of  voices,  and  Raleigh,  in  the  screech  of  the  un 
known  machines,  caught  an  undercurrent  of  menace. 
He  thought  with  swift  nausea  of  the  crushed  body  of 
yesterday.  For  obvious  reasons  he  had  not  men 
tioned  the  accident  to  his  uncle.  He  felt  that  if  it 
was  to  be  discussed,  word  should  have  come  from 
him. 

Now,  listening  for  a  brief  moment  to  the  battle  cry 
of  the  machines,  he  experienced  an  instant  of  dread. 
"The  place  of  chanting  wheels"  he  murmured.  Then 
he  laughed,  and  swung  down  the  corridor  and  out, 
with  not  so  much  as  a  glance  at  Miss  Hunter,  who 
had  not  taken  up  her  novel  in  anticipation  of  his 
return,  and  had  secretly  bestowed  the  gum  upon  the 
under  portion  of  the  switchboard. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  REALM  OF  VULCAN 

r"\UTTON,  who  ruled  in  the  little  employment  of- 
*-^  fice,  against  whose  door  surged  the  changing 
tide  of  men  demanding  a  job,  possessed  a  gift  of 
character-reading,  sharpened  by  long  years  of  exer 
cise  to  a  knife-edge  of  decision.  He  had  formed  a 
habit  of  looking  over  the  waiting  men,  and  calling 
in  one  or  another,  regardless  of  turn,  if  he  read  in 
their  faces  or  attitudes  anything  of  strength  or 
originality.  Rarely,  he  failed. 

This  morning,  however,  the  assortment  looked 
rather  sorry.  Half  a  dozen  negroes  lounged  in  a 
corner,  in  the  hapless  attire  and  tropically  relaxed  at 
titude  that  the  African  never  wholly  sheds.  Near 
the  door,  several  bewhiskered  individuals  stood 
smoking.  Dull  red  sweaters  and  jackets  bulked 
them,  cloth  caps  lent  haziness  to  their  generally 
muggy  outline.  Sluggish  eyes  and  facial  angles 
perilously  sharp,  indexed  their  potentiality.  An  old 
man,  his  face  drawn  conelike  into  a  dirty  white 
beard,  streaked  with  tobacco  courses  ancient  as 
mountain  waterways,  stooped  above  a  stove,  and 

31 


32  Chanting  Wheels 

fingered  a  slip  of  paper  anxiously,  mumble-gummed 
like  a  guinea-pig. 

Button  puckered  his  mouth  and  began  run 
ning  through  the  card  index,  showing  where  men 
were  wanted,  and  for  what.  When  he  glanced 
out  again,  a  tall  lad,  in  khaki  puttees  and  breeches 
and  a  lumberman's  mackinaw,  stood  with  his 
back  toward  him,  looking  on  the  falling  snow  and 
lifeless  grey  dawn  of  early  winter.  He  was 
whistling. 

Button  saw  one  of  the  dark  bewhiskered  men  sud 
denly  come  to  life,  the  sluggishness  stripped  from  his 
face  like  a  mask.  He  turned,  dark  eyes  glowing  and 
laid  an  arm  on  the  tall  boy's  sleeve. 

The  whistle  stopped  as  the  boy  swung  round.  He 
saw  the  dark  little  man,  an  Armenian,  he  thought, 
ask  something,  saw  the  boy  nod  and  smile,  and  his 
lips  puckered  to  a  whistle  again.  The  little  man's 
shoulders  began  to  bob  to  its  lilt. 

Button  picked  up  a  paper  on  his  disk,  glanced  out, 
down  at  the  paper,  then  strode  to  the  glass  door  and 
opened  it. 

"Raleigh,"  he  called  sharply. 

He  caught  the  foreigner's  excited  voice 

"Oh  yes,  yes — that  it — my  ole  mudder's  song. 
Where  you  hear " 

The  boy  stopped  whistling.  "It's  in  a  book  of 
Russian  folk  songs,"  he  replied.  "I  am  arranging 
it  for  violin  and  piano." 

"Raleigh" — said  Button  again. 

The  boy  flashed  a  smile  over  his  shoulder.     "Just 


The  Realm  of  Vulcan          33 

a  minute,"  he  called.  Then,  to  the  man,  "Do  you 
know  more  of  them  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  many — much,"  he  waved  inarticulate 
hands. 

Raleigh  nodded  as  he  came  up  to  Button,  who 
was  gazing,  speechless.  Men  did  not  say  "just  a 
minute"  to  whom  he  opened  the  glass  door.  The 
boy  was  speaking. 

"I'm  sorry  to  keep  you,"  he  said,  "but  that  chap 
knows  some  rare  music.  I  must  talk  to  him  later. 
Middle-Russian,  and  extremely  difficult  to  find." 
Then,  absorbing  a  little  of  the  other's  amazed  stare, 
he  laughed.  "How  did  you  know  my  name?"  he 
asked. 

Dutton  beckoned  him  into  the  office.  "Memo  from 
Culhane,"  he  replied.  "Told  me  to  look  out  for  you. 
Come  in." 

Raleigh  cast  a  lingering  glance  at  the  little  Rus 
sian,  then  called — "Meet  me  here  after  work,  will 
you?  I  want  to  talk  to  you."  The  other  nodded, 
abashed  into  sudden  silence  by  the  presence  of  Pow- 
er-To-Hire  in  Button.  It  is  a  curious  abasement, 
taught  in  long  hours  of  waiting  before  employment, 
and  it  tends  to  reduce  confidence  to  nil.  That  the 
man  about  to  be  addressed  holds  your  fate  in  his 
usually  pencilled  hand,  produces  the  conscious  hu 
mility  of  the  judgment  seat. 

Button  closed  the  door,  produced  a  card  from  a 
rack,  which  Raleigh  signed,  fished  in  a  drawer  for 
a  numbered  badge,  and  scrawled  a  note  across  a 
bit  of  paper. 


34  Chanting  Wheels 

"Take  this  up  to  Culhane,  in  the  hot-press  room. 
He'll  fix  you  up."  Then  still  studying  the  other 
curiously,  "What  were  you  talking  to  that  chap 
about?" 

"Folk  music,"  replied  the  newest  member  of  the 
Hydraulic  Company,  pinning  the  badge  upside  down 
on  his  shirt.  "The  Russians  have  some  very  old 
modes,  that  are  difficult  to  trace.  This  chant " 

A  breathing  moan,  high  above  them,  leaping  in 
crescendos  to  a  shriek,  eclipsed  further  discourse. 
Raleigh  jumped  like  a  deer. 

"Whistle,"  bellowed  Button.  "Go  on  up— Cul 
hane — ."  He  pointed  to  a  corridor.  Raleigh  nod 
ded,  and  with  a  sudden  sense  of  compulsion,  stepped 
through  a  heavily  grilled  door  into  a  corridor  full 
of  streaming  men.  Raleigh  joined  the  stream, 
turned  left  with  them,  and  emerged  upon  a  -room 
set  with  huge  machines.  The  crowd  flowed  diverse 
ways.  Raleigh  hesitated,  then  turned  to  a  big  chap 
striding  by  him. 

"Pardon  me,  can  you  tell  me  where  the  hot-press 
room  is?" 

"Sure,"  said  the  other,  with  a  quick  appraising 
glance.  "Coin*  that  way  myself.  Just  comin'  in?" 

"Yes.  What  an  enormous  place  it  is,"  as  he 
looked  around  at  the  rooms  through  which  they 
were  passing.  They  were  stirring  into  activity.  Men 
in  overalls  prowled  round  gigantic  still  machines. 
Down  a  corridor  came  a  little  electric  tractor,  with  a 
man  poised  statue-like  at  the  controls,  and  a  little  two- 
wheeled  truck  wagging  like  a  mandarin  in  its  wake. 


The  Realm  of  Vulcan          35 

In  the  comparative  stillness  the  calls  of  men  came 
clearly.  But  even  as  they  walked,  sounds  (he  fan 
cied  it  so)  began  to  shoot  up  like  giant  weeds  in  the 
stillness.  The  rumble  of  a  starting  machine  surged 
heavily  up  an  octave.  Beside  it  rose  suddenly  the 
white  purr  of  a  dynamo,  slim,  whining,  vibrant; 
behind  them  the  cutting  machines,  fast  and  slow, 
began  their  meditative  grating,  broken  by  the  crash 
of  the  cut  steel  and  the  slivering  clang  of  the  severed 
pieces.  More  dynamos,  one  after  another,  slid  up 
a  snarling  scale  of  tones  and  steadied  to  pitch  to  be 
lost  instantly  among  the  big  noises. 

Then  as  Raleigh  began  to  think  his  ear  drums 
could  stand  not  another  whisper,  began  a  low  insist 
ent  throb,  mounting  by  degrees  to  a  deep-toned, 
pervasive  roar.  Instantly  the  sound-picture  was 
complete.  The  other  tones  fitted  themselves  into  the 
gigantic  theme. 

Raleigh  stopped  dead,  and  pointed  interrogatively 
in  the  direction  of  the  great  fundamental  rhythm. 

"Lizzie  and  Jane  and  Pollie,"  shouted  his  com 
panion.  "Them's  the  three  big  presses  in  shop  six. 
We  £0  this  way."  He  turned  aside  down  a  long 
narrow  dim  room,  out  across  railroad  tracks  and  to 
another  building. 

"Here's  the  hot-press,"  he  said,  turning  to  face 
him  squarely,  with  frank  curiosity.  "Coin'  to  work 
here?" 

"Yes.    I  am  to  see  Culhane." 

The  other  nodded.  "Ever  do  any  work  before?" 
he  asked,  with  the  frankness  characteristic  of  his 


36  Chanting  Wheels 

kind.  Steel  shaping  is  not  conducive  to  delicate 
nuances  of  personal  considerations.  All  the  tact 
there  is  in  the  shops  wouldn't  make  a  fly-speck  on  a 
blue-print.  The  man  was  looking  at  Raleigh's 
hands — strong  enough,  with  powerful  fingers,  and 
the  broad  palm  of  the  artist,  but  white  and  unseamed. 
Raleigh  laughed. 

"You  mean  I  look  rather  soft?  No.  I  never  did 
— not  this  kind.  I  guess  I  won't  pass  out,  though. 
It  can't  be  worse  than  'squads  east'  in  the  mud.  I 
staggered  through  a  year  or  so  of  that." 

"Uh— huh.  Rotten,  wani't  'el?  Well,  I  got  to 
go  now.  Culhane's  in  there,"  indicating  a  small 
shed,  set  like  a  doll  house  amid  a  towering  structure 
of  machines.  "My  name's  McGill.  I'm  foreman 
over  one  unit  of  punches." 

"Mine's  Raleigh."    They  shook  hands. 

"If  I  can  do  anything  for  yuh,  let  me  know." 
McGill  strode  off,  his  chiselled  nose  and  chin  and 
jaw  marvelously  at  variance  with  his  nondescript 
costume. 

Raleigh  looked  after  him  gratefully,  with  a  curi 
ous  strong  impression  of  having  seen  him  before; 
it  had  amounted  to  conviction  when  he  smiled. 
"What  a  peach,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  what  a 
head  to  sculpture.  How  nice  everybody  is!"  He 
had  been  feeling  a  little  strange,  and  more  than 
lonely,  and  the  rough  kindness  warmed  him.  He 
felt  he  had  made  a  friend. 

The  hot-press  room,  as  Raleigh  saw  it  that  first 
morning,  looked  to  him  like  imaginary  pictures  of 


The  Realm  of  Vulcan          37 

the  temple  of  Baal  in  Babylon.  The  room's  major 
length  stretched  to  his  right  some  four  hundred  feet, 
and  to  his  left,  another  hundred.  Squat  furnaces, 
roaring  and  glowing,  lined  the  wall — individual 
chapels  in  this  temple  of  flame.  A  similar  row  of 
them  clung  to  the  opposite  wall,  fifty  yards  away. 
In  front  of  each  furnace,  like  pillars  down  the  nave 
of  the  cathedral,  stood  the  punch-presses,  tall,  cylin 
drical,  their  central  piston  surrounded  by  a  colonnade 
of  rods,  and  topped  by  an  intricate  arabesque  of 
valve  and  lever. 

As  Raleigh  looked  down  the  stretch  of  the  presses, 
he  thought  he  had  never  seen  anything  so  primi 
tive,  so  pagan,  so  utterly  remote  from  the  world  of 
intensely  practical  achievement  that  it  really  was. 
Smoke  shrouded  it  with  mystery — black  smoke 
through  which  the  vapor  of  the  hot  iron  twisted 
unmixed  threads  of  sharp  green- white  pattern.  On 
the  general  gloom  opened  one  furnace  door  after 
another,  like  the  flickering  of  restless  eyelids,  and 
the  black  was  shot  for  an  instant  by  a  bar  of  fierce 
rose  light.  From  one  punch  or  another  came  a  flar 
ing  crash  and  a  spouting  of  fountain  flames  through 
the  colonnade  of  rods. 

Men  clustered  about  the  punches  or  moved  from 
furnace  to  press — ghostly,  strange,  their  white 
bodies  gleaming  bronze  when  the  light  fell  on  them. 
But  they  seemed  not  men  at  all.  The  whole  place 
worked  itself, — there  was  nothing  human  about  it. 
Above  and  around  the  shop  hung  the  many-threaded 
veil  of  roaring  sound,  curtaining  it  from  the  world 


38  Chanting  Wheels 

men  knew — about  it  wound  the  black  and  lustrous 
tapestry  of  the  smoke,  joining  all  its  parts  in  a  uni 
versal  mystery. 

The  rose  light  from  furnace  or  punch  flared  over 
it  from  time  to  time,  casting  for  a  moment  gigantic 
shadows  on  the  smoke-ceiling,  sometimes  catching 
a  punch  and  its  men  like  statues  transfixed  at  the 
crest  of  action,  and  painting  them  for  a  stabbing  sec 
ond  in  a  cameo  of  rose  and  black.  Thus  curtained 
by  sound  and  knit  by  the  smoke  into  an  enormous 
indistinctiveness,  void  of  human  sound,  it  did  indeed 
seem  some  monstrous  complexity  of  another  world, 
going  on  like  the  sun  or  a  volcano  with  its  huge 
impersonal  work  of  creation,  in  which  the  pigmy 
human  figures  played  but  puppet  parts. 

Raleigh  was  roused  by  a  touch  on  his  arm.  He 
started,  to  find  Culhane  beside  him,  grinning. 

"Thought  you'd  never  get  done  lookin',"  he  said, 
"she's  some  place,  ain't  she?  Come  on  into  my 
office,  and  I'll  give  you  a  locker  key."  They  turned 
toward  the  absurd  little  structure  McGill  had  in 
dicated.  Culhane  swung  a  small  panel  and  took  a 
key  from  it. 

"Number  99,"  he  announced.  "Take  off  your 
coat,  and  I'll  show  you  where  you're  to  work. 
Better  duck  your  shirt  too.  It  ain't  no  picnic  where 
you're  goin'." 

Raleigh  threaded  the  lockers,  wrinkling  his  nose 
a  little  at  the  smell  of  mingled  iron  and  humanity, 
and  presently  returned,  feeling  slightly  cold,  and 
enormously  naked  in  his  gym  shirt. 


The  Realm  of  Vulcan  39 

Culhane  looked  at  him  approvingly.  Raleigh's 
lines  had  been  born  to  him,  and  nine  months  of 
physical  laxity  had  not  visibly  marred  them.  "Well, 
you  look  all  right,"  he  said  in  pleased  surprise.  "In 
pretty  good  shape  ?" 

"Fearfully  soft,"  confessed  Raleigh.  "I've  done 
nothing  since  the  army.  I'll  really  be  glad  for  some 
exercise." 

The  foreman  laughed.  "Well,  you  won't  com 
plain  of  gettin'  soft  here,"  he  said  grimly.  They 
walked  down  the  center  of  the  shop  on  a  narrow 
gage  track,  and  stepped  aside  to  avoid  the  little 
tractor  snorting  by  with  a  cradle  of  hot  billets.  The 
men  looked  curiously  at  the  tall,  bare-headed 
stranger  beside  Culhane,  and  made  audible  com 
ment. 

"Hey,  get  this  comin'  with  Culhane.  Ain't  it 
cute  and  clean?"  This  from  a  thick-lipped  power 
ful  man,  with  little  eyes,  and  a  forehead  in  full 
retre.it.  Raleigh  heard — glanced  at  him  gravely 
with  a  lower  and  sweep  of  his  lashes,  but  said  noth 
ing.  Something  tugged  at  him  inside.  "I  shall 
have  trouble  there,"  he  thought  instantly. 

"Looks  like  a  movie  guy.  Oh  you  Wallace  Reid !" 
This  from  a  small  quick-mouthed  person,  with  a  vast 
and  Rabelaisian  fund  of  humor. 

Culhane  was  watching  the  new  man  with  more 
care  than  he  showed.  They  passed  a  swart  trio  of 
Italians,  resting  beside  their  press.  One  of  them 
gestured  largely  toward  Raleigh,  with  the  thumb 
of  dramatic  contempt. 


40  Chanting  Wheels 

"Guardal  Guarda!  La  filiuola  senza  la  mamma! 
Sant'  Anna  che  peccato!" 

Raleigh  stopped,  and,  leaning  toward  him,  spoke 
in  liquid  Italian,  using  the  familiar  second  persons 
one  does  with  servants. 

"Speak  not  of  my  mother,  dark  child  of  a  pig, 
or  I  shall  change  the  shape  of  that  ugly  face  of  thine. 
And  when  thou  speakest  the  tongue  of  Petrarch,  do 
not  as  if  thy  mouth  were  stopped  with  dough."  He 
started  on. 

"Accidente!"  gasped  the  Italian,  and  put  the 
lighted  end  of  his  cigarette  into  his  mouth.  The 
others  stared — also  Culhane,  with  a  new  light  of 
respect  in  his  eyes. 

"You  speak  their  lingo?" 

"Yes,  I  spent  a  summer  in  Italy,  and  the  language 
was  rather  easy  for  me.  I  hate  to  read  translations, 
you  know.  They  are  so  inaccurate.  That  chap  is 
Sicilian,  I  fancy;  he  speaks  very  poorly,  just  as — " 
He  was  about  to  finish,  "as  many  Americans,"  but 
he  remembered  Pat's  honest  "ain'ts"  and  switched 
to — "as  so  many  provincials." 

The  Irishman  was  impressed.  "What'd  he  say  to 
you?"  he  inquired. 

Raleigh  laughed.  "Oh,  a  free  translation  would 
be — 'does  your  mother  know  you're  out  ?' ' 

Culhane  joined  his  laugh,  then  sobered.  "Don't 
pay  no  attention  to  *em,"  he  counselled.  "They 
always  kid  a  new  guy." 

"Oh,  they  won't  bother  me,"  replied  Raleigh 
gaily.  "I'm  hardened.  I  presume  I  shall  always  be 


The  Realm  of  Vulcan          41 

the  center  of  the  humor  wherever  it  is  happening — 
it  was  so  at  college.  I  had  a  very  unpleasant  time 
with  a  chap  there  because  he  didn't  like  my  wearing 
purple  pajamas  and  a  green  bathrobe.  So  I'm  proof. 
It's  only  an  arrested  psychology  of  tolerance, 
anyhow." 

"My  Gawd !"  murmured  Pat,  as  the  strange  words 
billowed  about  him.  "This  bird  beats  me!" 

They  stopped  before  one  of  the  presses,  and 
Culhane  called  a  spidery-armed  man  with  a  dirty 
handkerchief  bound  round  his  head,  who  ap 
proached,  wrench  in  hand,  from  the  press.  "He's 
Roberts,  head  of  this  unit,"  explained  Pat  in  an 
undertone  to  Raleigh.  Briefly  to  Roberts — "This 
man'll  take  Molowski's  place."  He  turned  to  the 
boy  again.  "He'll  show  you  what  to  do."  He 
nodded  and  walked  back  towards  his  office,  pausing 
here  and  there  to  ask  a  question  or  give  a  di 
rection. 

Raleigh  held  out  his  hand  to  Roberts,  who  gazed 
at  it  in  surprise  and  then  took  it  in  an  unexpectedly 
fishy  grasp.  "My  name's  Raleigh,  Mr.  Roberts." 
he  began.  The  other  nodded,  taken  aback.  Here 
was  a  queer  sort  of  laborer. 

"Goin'ta  work  on  number  five,  are  yuh  ?"  he  said 
in  a  tired  voice,  with  a  complaint  unvoiced  in  it. 
"Well,  she's  the  worst  ole  press  in  the  shop.  Know 
anything  about  punch  steel?" 

"My  ignorance  is  only  equalled  by  my  eagerness," 
responded  Raleigh,  a  little  nervously,  trying  to  be  at 
ease,  conscious  of  the  group  of  men  sizing  him  up 


42  Chanting  Wheels 

with  short  sentences  and  jerks  of  the  head  to  each 
other. 

Roberts  stared,  said  "Oh"  in  a  helpless  fashion, 
and  retreated  from  the  unstable  ground  of  personal 
amenities  to  the  more  sure  footing  of  work.  He 
explained. 

"These  here  billets,"  indicating  a  pile  of  steel 
cylinders,  "goes  in  them  furnaces.  We  don't  have 
nothing  to  do  with  that.  When  they're  hot,  we 
pulls  'em  out,  and  puts  'em  in  the  press.  Watch — " 
as  the  furnace  door  swung  open  with  a  blinding 
glare  of  light.  One  of  the  men  clawed  at  the  in 
terior  with  a  long  hooked  poker,  and  drew  forth  a 
billet,  rose-white,  with  crisp  little  lines  of  red  cor- 
ruscating  about  its  edges.  Another  man  seized  it 
with  long  tongs,  swung  it  to  the  press,  and  set  it  on 
end  in  a  saucerlike  depression  in  the  center.  Roberts 
stepped  to  the  press,  turned  a  gauge,  and  amid  a 
hissing  and  gurgling  of  invisible  water,  the  billet 
disappeared  down  as  in  an  elevator,  till  only  its  white 
top  reflected  up  the  little  hole  into  which  it  had 
disappeared.  Then  the  punch  descended  like  a  long, 
accusing  ringer.  Dripping  with  oil,  it  sank  into  the 
hot  metal.  There  was  a  crackling  hiss,  a  spouting  of 
flames — the  press  shook.  Then  press  and  billet  rose 
together,  and  another  man,  as  the  punch  cleared, 
lifted  the  billet  to  a  conveyor.  At  the  same  time, 
another  was  slipped  on  its  place,  and  the  operation 
was  repeated. 

Raleigh  watched  with  hypnotized  gaze.  The 
sweat  was  beginning  to  trickle  down  his  chest,  and 


The  Realm  of  Vulcan          43 

had  beaded  his  forehead.  Roberts  finished  a  run  of 
billets  and  returned  to  him. 

"See,"  he  said,  wiping  his  forehead.  "You  better 
begin  takin'  'em  off,  I  guess.  Usually,  they's  a  rest 
every  oncet  in  a  while,  like  now.  But  now  and 
again,  they  run  right  along.  We're  short  another 
man  yet."  He  looked  at  Raleigh's  hands.  "You'd 
oughtta  have  gloves,"  he  said  indifferently. 

A  tall  man  with  a  nearly  shaved  head,  and  his 
thin  body  sharp  beneath  his  dripping  undershirt, 
produced  a  pair  of  sodden  gloves  from  an  overall 
hip-pocket,  and  thrust  them  at  Raleigh. 

"Extra  pair,"  he  said  laconically.  "Get  'em  at 
the  Hydraulic  store.  Quarter." 

"Oh,  thanks  awfully,"  said  Raleigh.  He  drew  on 
the  gloves.  They  were  heavy  with  grease  and  dirt, 
and  sticky  with  warmth,  and  the  inside  was  both 
gritty  and  slippery  to  the  touch. 

"Ugh !"  thought  the  boy.  "I  won't  have  any  more 
piano  touch  than  an  ox."  But  he  drew  them  on  grate 
fully.  Someone  gave  him  a  pair  of  tongs.  Then 
the  furnace  door  opened,  and  the  billets  began  run 
ning.  Raleigh  seized  the  first,  and  in  his  eagerness, 
took  hold  too  high  up.  It  promptly  fell  on  the  floor 
like  a  small  meteor,  and  instantly  became  the  center 
of  an  oily,  though  miniature  conflagration.  Crim 
son,  he  picked  it  up,  did  likewise  with  another,  and 
toppled  the  third  too  far  toward  him,  only  juggling 
it  to  the  cradle  with  frantic  wavings  of  elbows. 
After  this,  things  went  better,  and  he  learned  to 
swing  the  billet,  which  weighed  about  twenty-five 


44  Chanting  Wheels 

pounds,  from  the  punch  to  the  cradle  in  one  sweep 
on  the  tongs. 

He  noticed  another  man  join  the  group,  but  not 
till  nearly  half  an  hour  later  did  he  have  a  chance 
to  look  up.  Then,  hot,  reeking,  with  his  back  and 
shoulders  beginning  to  pulse  with  a  warm  ache,  he 
leaned  on  his  tongs,  and  looked  around  to  find  the 
little  Russian  gazing  fixedly  at  him  out  of  warm, 
brown  eyes.  He  exclaimed. 

"What  luck !    Are  you  going  to  work  here  ?" 

"Yes— I  think." 

Again  came  the  billets.  Raleigh  found  himself 
growing  used  to  the  continued  din  about  him,  if 
he  did  not  to  the  heat  and  the  weight  of  the  billets. 
By  the  end  of  the  morning,  he  found  he  could 
analyze  the  sounds  enough  to  hear  his  neighbor's 
conversations  without  strain,  and  found  the  pitching 
of  his  voice  that  carried  without  shouting. 

At  eleven-thirty,  came  the  hooting  of  the  siren 
whistle  again,  driving  all  other  sounds  to  silence. 
Instantly  there  was  magic.  Men  dropped  their  tools, 
and  scuttled  down  the  shop  toward  the  locker  room. 
Raleigh  walked  slowly  after  them,  too  tired  to  care 
whither  or  why.  Then  he  straightened.  This  would 
never  do.  He  flung  up  his  head,  and  marched 
quickly  down  the  track. 

Near  Culhane's  office,  he  met  McGill.  The  other 
grinned. 

"How  you  comin'?"  he  asked. 

"Fine,"  replied  Raleigh  valiantly.  ("Oh  you  fear 
ful  liar,"  chorused  bicep  and  deltoid  in  silent,  sting- 


The  Realm  of  Vulcan          45 

ing  reproof.)  "What  means  the  stir  in  Rome?" 
indicating  the  men  streaming  across  the  shop. 

"Lunch.     Bring  any?" 

"No.    I  never  thought  of  it." 

"Most  of  us  do  out  here,  cause  you  have  to  dress 
to  go  up  to  the  Hydraulic  lunch  room — put  on  a 
shirt,  anyhow,  an'  you  can't  do  that  without  wash- 
in',  and  it  all  takes  time.  We  only  get  half  an  hour. 
I'm  goin'  up  today,  though.  Come  on." 

Raleigh  dived  into  his  locker,  and  pulled  on  his 
shirt,  hastily  soused  his  face  and  hands  at  a  row  of 
taps  and  white  basins,  and  hurried  to  McGill.  The 
latter  roared  at  sight  of  him.  He  had  succeeded  in 
smearing  his  face  to  a  mottled  brown,  and  a  rain  of 
soot  had  settled  on  his  light  hair. 

Raleigh  saw  the  expression,  and  smiled  ruefully. 
"I  suppose  I  am  a  fearful  spectacle,"  he  said.  "I 
feel  as  if  I  had  been  fed  on  smoke  bombs  for  days, 
and  was  breaking  out  with  them." 

They  hurried  across  the  shops  and  up-stairs  to  the 
lunch  room,  which  was  of  the  self-serving  variety, 
and  joined  the  line  of  waiting  men.  McGill  drew 
forth  a  package  of  crumpled  cigarettes,  and  lit  one, 
shoving  the  pack  once  more  into  his  pocket.  Raleigh 
eyed  it  hungrily. 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  borrow  a  cigarette?"  he 
asked,  questioning  the  continuance  of  army  policy 
in  the  shops. 

"Hell,  yes.  Here."  The  two  young  men  envel 
oped  themselves  comfortably  in  blue  smoke,  and 
leaned  against  the  wall. 


46  Chanting  Wheels 

"  'Bonny  St.  John  still  stands  on  Sterling,' " 
carolled  McGill  absently,  in  a  voice  of  such  uncon 
sciously  lovely  quality  that  Raleigh  flung  away  from 
him  and  stared. 

"Great  Hat!"  he  exclaimed.  "Where  did  you 
hear  that — and  where  did  you  get  that  voice?" 

McGill  blinked.     "Huh?"  he  asked. 

"That  song — it's  the  Two  Sisters  O'Binnorae — 
an  old  Scotch  ballad." 

"Yeah.  The  ole  woman  sings  it  around  the 
house." 

Raleigh  considered  him.  "Do  you  like  music?" 
he  asked  gravely. 

"I  sure  do,"  responded  McGill  enthusiastically. 
"Do  you  know  that  new  tune,  'The  Bolshevik 
Blues?'" 

Raleigh  shuddered  inwardly — but  bowed  to 
custom.  "No,  I'm  afraid  not,"  he  replied.  Then, 
taking  hope  again,  "Do  you  sing  much?  Your  voice 
has  a  lovely  quality — baritone,  I  should  say." 

McGill  blushed  violently,  and  glanced  around. 
Their  neighbors  had  not  heard.  He  drew  nearer 
Raleigh. 

"Naw.  I  just  make  a  racket  all  the  time.  Speci 
ally  when  I'm  takin'  a  bath.  Funny  how  you  always 
want  to  sing  in  a  bathtub.  My  kid  brother  calls  me 
the  human  cally-ope." 

The  line  moved  forward,  and  when,  with  trays 
of  food,  they  were  seated  at  long  tables,  Raleigh 
looked  about  in  interest.  The  room  was  full  of  men 
like  himself  as  to  dirt  and  clothing,  all  eating  with 


The  Realm  of  Vulcan          47 

as  much  speed  as  possible.  The  noise  was  prodi 
gious.  Raleigh  saw  his  little  Russian,  tray  in  hand, 
sit  down  at  a  near  table,  and  begin  to  eat  quietly, 
without  troubling  to  remove  his  cap.  A  big  tester, 
opposite  McGill,  and  taking  his  soup  with  the 
orchestration  of  a  Strauss,  looked  across  at  the 
covered  man  with  disgust. 

"Hell — "  he  rumbled,  sucking  in  soup  like  a  cave 
of  winds,  "hell — "  (schloop,  schloop)  "he  ain't  got 
no  manners."  He  licked  his  spoon,  back  up,  with 
Chesterfieldian  superiority. 

Raleigh  choked  violently  into  his  tray,  then  looked 
across  to  McGill,  and  resumed  the  conversation  of 
his  interest. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  unconscious  of  the  atten 
tion  his  clean-cut  head  and  clear  enunciation  were 
drawing,  "if  you  like  singing,  why  can't  we  get  up 
a  quartet  here,  and  get  together?" 

He  felt  a  thud  on  his  shoulder,  as  his  right  hand 
neighbor,  a  huge-paunched  fellow  with  a  walrus 
moustache  and  small,  happy  eyes  peering  like  ami 
able  marbles  over  his  round  cheeks,  laid  a  gigantic 
hand  on  him. 

"You  said  it,  brother,"  he  affirmed  expansively. 
"I'm  on.  I  been  a-lookin'  for  sumthun'  like  that. 
You  a  new  guy  here  ?" 

"Yes.  I'm  on  press  five,  in  the  hot-press."  The 
tabulation  somehow  pleased  him.  He  belonged. 

"I  run  the  picklin'  room.  Are  you  a  moosician?" 
i  "Well,  I'm  very  fond  of  it" — cautiously,  "are 
you?" 


48  Chanting  Wheels 

"I  sure  am,  ain't  I,  Freddy?"  to  McGill. 

"You  bet,"  responded  Fred. 

Raleigh  beamed.  "Splendid,"  he  cried,  with  such 
enthusiasm  that  the  two  grimy  stokers,  down  the 
table  stopped  chewing  to  look  at  him  with  suspicion. 
"Why  don't  you  two,  and  two  others,  a  lead  and  a 
tenor,  come  down  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  with  me  some 
night?  I  can  get  to  a  piano  there,  and  we'll  get 
going.  How  about  tonight  ?  I  know  of  a  lot  of  fine 
songs — I  was  leader  of  the  Glee  Club  in  college — " 
He  had  not  meant  this  last  to  get  out. 

McGill  caught  it.  "You  go  to  college?"  he  asked 
quickly. 

"Yes — now,"  Raleigh  hurried  on,  "now  we 
can—" 

But  his  big  neighbor,  he  of  the  pickling  room, 
drowned  him  out. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned — "  he  surveyed  him  with 
mild  wonder,  and  a  dawning  new  expression. 
"What  the  hell  do  you  know  about  that  ?  I  thought 
they  was  sumpin'  funny  about  you.  What  you  doin' 
in  the  shops,  if  you're  all  eddicated  and  everything?" 
with  the  unspoken  barrier  which  the  unlettered 
quickly  raise  to  the  mentality  of  greater  opportunity. 

Raleigh  felt  the  unconscious  antagonism,  and 
flushed.  He  liked  these  men — amazingly — as  he 
had  liked  many  in  his  regiment.  Why  could  they 
not  accept  him  for  what  he  was?  He  saw  in 
McGill's  grave  eyes  the  same  question.  McGill  was 
different,  he  felt,  and  it  hurt.  He  leaned  forward 
and  looked  straight  at  him. 


The  Realm  of  Vulcan          49 

"I'm  here,"  he  said  quietly,  but  with  finality  in 
his  tone,  "just  for  the  same  reason  that  you  are,  I 
presume — to  make  a  living."  McGill's  eyes  dropped, 
then  lifted  clearly,  with  an  unspoken  pardon  in 
them.  Raleigh  felt  he  understood.  Lightly,  as 
they  rose  from  the  table,  he  said.  "Well,  how  about 
it?  Can  you  both  come  down,  and  dig  up  two 
others?" 

The  man  of  the  pickling  room  nodded.  "Sure. 
I'll  get  Sam  Swenson  and  Bill  Hogan.  'Bout  half 
past  seven?" 

"Yes.  I'll  meet  you  in  the  lobby."  They  clat 
tered  down  the  iron  stairs,  greasy  with  countless 
feet,  and  Raleigh  reached  his  press  as  the  whistle 
rose  on  the  air.  He  found  the  little  Russian  of  the 
waiting  room  finishing  the  tail  of  a  pickle. 

"Hello  there,"  he  cried.     "This  is  luck,  isn't  it?" 

The  other  nodded,  his  dull  face  breaking  into  a 
slow  smile. 

"I  show  you  those  songs,  Barin,  after?" 

Raleigh  drew  on  his  sodden  gloves.  "Yes,  in 
deed,"  he  said.  "I'd  love  it."  He  picked  a  billet 
from  the  press  and  swung  it  to  the  cradle,  talking 
over  his  shoulder.  "All  your  folk  music  is  so 
beautiful,  and  so  full  of  color" — another  billet— 
"and  the  rhythms  are  intricate  and  fascinating — " 
The  little  Russian  was  looking  his  wonderment 
when  Roberts  appeared,  and  curtly  directed  him  to 
a  furnace,  though  there  was  nothing  there  for  him 
to  do  at  that  time.  The  boy  noted  his  face  fall 
sullen,  clouded  with  a  smothered  resentment — 


50  Chanting  Wheels 

suddenly  all  animal.  He  wondered  for  some  time 
about  it.  "Does  he  feel  the  same  distaste  for  unrea 
soning  authority  that  I  would?"  he  questioned. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  away,  and  his  work, 
through  habit,  acquired  less  and  less  conscious  direc 
tion,  he  began  listening  with  attention  to  the  net 
work  of  noises  about  him,  differentiating  its  parts, 
tabulating  its  rhythms  with  expert  ear.  At  the  base 
of  all  the  complex  web  of  sound  lay,  like  a  pattern, 
the  pervasive  throb  of  the  three  great  presses.  He 
found  himself  swinging  his  billets  in  time  to  it, 
and  tunes,  strong,  simple,  framed  on  the  symmetry 
of  its  pulsing,  began  to  form  in  his  mind. 

"It's  the  fundamental  theme  of  the  whole  place" 
he  thought.  "Maybe  I  can  use  it  for  something." 


CHAPTER    IV 

"PELLEAS  AND  MELISANDE" 

THE  final  whistle  lifted  Raleigh  out  of  an  in 
trospective  revery,  made  possible  by  a  months' 
toughening  of  arms  and  back  to  almost  automatic 
functioning.    He  straightened,  walked  to  the  locker 
room,  and  changed  to  his  street  clothes. 

These  Raleigh  had  chosen  deliberately  with  an 
eye  to  the  picturesque.  The  army  breeches,  pat 
terned  with  stains,  bore  still  the  lines  of  their 
Parisian  tailor,  and  the  khaki-and-blue  mackinaw, 
with  the  sins  of  many  campfires  upon  it,  undeniably 
proclaimed  itself  as  Abercrombies.  So,  despite  dirt 
and  stiff  legs,  he  made  a  jaunty  figure  as  he  left  the 
shop,  a  Canadian  toque  of  blue  debonairly  on  one 
side  of  his  head.  He  looked  round  for  McGill,  but 
failed  to  see  him,  and  marched  off  to  the  trolley. 
He  looked  back  at  the  Hydraulic,  its  great  chimneys 
barring  the  cold  blue  of  the  winter  sky,  and  its 
furnaces  adding  a  fierce  note  of  rose  light  to  the  low 
clouds.  He  thought  of  his  first  month's  work — 
thought  of  it  in  terms  of  fatigue  and  dirt,  and  of 
new,  vivid  experience — then  thought  of  the  thou- 

51      ' 


52  Chanting  Wheels 

sands  of  men  to  whom  it  meant  dirt  and  fatigue — 
men  who  grew  from  childhood  to  youth  and  from 
youth  to  old  age  under  its  smoky  skies,  ^e  drew 
a  quick  breath  and,  fighting  his  way  through  the 
crowd  about  the  trolley,  plunged  on.  Forty-five 
minutes  before  him,  he  pulled  a  miniature  con 
ductor's  score  out  of  his  pocket,  and,  before  the 
trolley  started,  happily  lost  himself  in  the  misted 
beauty,  the  pale  shadows,  of  PeLleas  and  Melisande. 

He  was  conscious  that  someone  sat  down  beside 
him  but  didn't  look  up  until  an  incredulous,  cool 
voice  that  instantly  brought  a  picture  of  furs  and 
tailored  trim-  clothes,  said : 

"Why— that's  Debussy!" 

With  his  eyes  still  on  the  page,  Raleigh  raised 
a  grimy  forefinger. 

"Wait"  he  answered,  smiling.  "Voices  are  my 
specialty.  You're  between  20  and  26,  probably  well 
dressed,  with  a  conventional  background  that  you've 
pretty  well  overcome :  a  graduate  of  some  college 
east  of  Albany,  and  your  head  rules  your  heart. 
You  don't  know  much  about  music,  but  like  it.  You 
should  be  pretty,  but  I  suppose  that's  asking  too 
much." 

He  heard  a  gasp,  then  swung  round,  grinning,  to 
encounter  the  astounded  gaze  of  two  very  brown 
eyes.  That  was  all — for  an  instant — just  brown — 
like  autumn  pools,  leaf-lined  and  deep.  Then  the 
ensemble  registered — a  small  straight,  tiptilted  nose, 
black  brows  that  swept  back  and  up  with  the  lines  of 
Mercury's  cap,  and  lips  parted  in  surprise. 


"  Pelleas  and  Melisande  "        53 

As  Raleigh  looked,  the  chin  lifted,  and  she 
laughed —  a  silverly  infectious  cascade — "like  de 
Pachmann  doing  a  Chopin  waltz"  as  Raleigh  put  it 
later.  Then  she  smiled,  poised,  composed. 

"Well — that  is  one  of  the  most  amusing  things 
I  ever  heard.  Where  did  you  learn?" 

"It  wasn't  asking  too  much,"  murmured  Raleigh 
his  eyes  on  her  face,  "It  wasn't  asking  enough." 

'7  asked — where  did  you  learn  character-reading 
by  voice  ?"  There  was  a  firm  pull  to  the  impersonal 
that  Raleigh  instantly  acceded  to. 

"Oh,  listening  to  people  talk  at  concerts.  One  has 
to  stand  five  minutes  of  it  in  decency,  before  turn 
ing  round  and  glaring.  Don't  you  love  this  thing?" 
thumping  the  score  affectionately. 

She  nodded,  quick  eyes  surveying  him.  Raleigh 
felt  the  picturesqueness  of  the  mackinaw  was  not 
lost,  and  deliberately  wiped  a  smut  across  his  nose 
with  one  black-grimed  hand  to  add  atmosphere. 

"Yes."  She  evidently  was  bursting  with  ques 
tions.  "I  saw  it  last  in  Paris,  in  February  1919." 

"No,  really?  I  was  there  then,  too,  studying 
with  Ravel." 

"With" — this  left  her  wordless  a  moment.  Then 
"And — are  studying  now?"  with  a  frankly  complete 
glance  that  included  costume,  dirt,  and  score. 

"Yes — an  American  symphony."  He  replied 
gravely,  with  twinkling  eyes.  "This  month  was  just 
the  prelude,  but  the  themes  were  pretty  fully  stated." 

She  picked  up  the  play  easily.  "Do  you  like  the 
orchestration?" 


54  Chanting  Wheels 

"Not  so  much.  Brass  too  loud — color  too  dark 
and  lurid — demands  too  much  of  the  players.  Needs 
more  rests,  and  the  whistle  motif  used  more 
frequently." 

She  laughed  delightedly,  then  suddenly,  her  eyes 
narrowed  at  him  with  inward  revelation.  Then  she 
looked  demurely  down. 

"You  must  be  in  the  hot-press  shop."  She 
enjoyed  his  quick  look  of  surprise  at  the  clean 
hit. 

"Now  see  here,"  he  protested,  "you're  spoiling  it 
all.  You're  anchoring  the  careless  feet  of  Romance 
in  locus  operandi.  You've  turned  the  diamond,  like 
Tytl  in  The  Blue  Bird,'  and  I've  got  to  go  back 
into  every-dayness."  She  was  like  wine  to  him. 
"I've  nothing  left  but  to  introduce  myself." 

She  reached  over  and  pressed  the  button  to  stop 
the  trolley.  "Oh,  that's  quite  unnecessary,  Mr. 
Raleigh,"  she  said  imperturbably,  her  eyes  on  her 
lap. 

Raleigh  stared,  then  meekly  bowed  his  head.  "I 
never  had  a  Conan  Doyle  mind"  he  said  plaintively. 
"Please  explain,  Miss ?" 

"Dear,  dear — must  you  anchor  the  careless  feet  of 
romance  (I  suspect  you  of  quoting  that  from  a 
novel)  in  the  banal  specific  of  modus  operandi?" 
She  rose  as  the  trolley  began  grating  to  a  stop,  and 
patted  her  veil  with  a  grey  gloved  hand.  "I've 
enjoyed  the  lecture  on  orchestration  so  much. 
Goodbye." 

Raleigh   half   started   up,   encountered   the   elfin 


"  Pelleas  and  Melisande  "        55 

triumphant  sparkle  of  the  brown  eyes,  and  promptly 
sat  down,  blithely  impersonal. 

"Goodbye"  he  said  pleasantly,  touched  his  Cana 
dian  toque,  and  bent  his  eyes  again  to  his  reading. 
From  under  lowered  lids  he  saw  her  face  flush 
suddenly,  saw  her  hesitate,  then  turn  quickly.  The 
bell  clanged.  The  car  went  on. 

"Score  one,"  he  thought,  but  without  elation. 
Then  he  brightened.  "If  she's  a  good  sport,  she'll 
give  me  a  cue  somehow;  if  she  isn't" — he  dismissed 
this  as  impossible,  and  turning  to  the  window  scene 
of  Pelleas,  read  it  with  ardor. 


CHAPTER    V 

FUGUES  AND  FISTS 

THE  following  Monday,  the  shop  council,  con 
sisting  of  David,  his  vice-president,  secretary 
and  treasurer,  the  general  manager,  and  the  head 
foreman  of  all  the  shops,  concluded  a  stormy  session 
in  David's  office.  Marshall,  the  vice-president,  had 
suggested  compromise,  a  certain  accession  to  the 
demands  of  the  unions,  namely,  that  the  Hydraulic 
should  become  a  strictly  union  shop,  employing  none 
but  union  men. 

To  this,  surprisingly  enough  to  the  lay  mind,  had 
risen  bitter  objection  from  most  of  the  shop  fore 
men  themselves.  Pat  had  delivered  himself. 

"You  don't  know  what  it'd  mean,  Mr.  Marshall" 
he  said  bluntly.  "I've  worked  in  closed  shops.  I 
know.  The  men  here  are  happy  enough,  an'  it's  just 
that  the  union  fellows  know  that  that  makes  'em 
crazy  to  get  in.  I'll  say  my  shop's  the  worst — them 
foreigners  '11  swallow  anything  anybody  tells  'em. 
All  the  trouble's  comin'  from  outside  agitators  that 
want  to  pull  a  strike  for  a  tight  union  shop.  If  the 
strike  comes — " 

56 


Fugues  and  Fists  57 

"If  it  comes,  let  it"  David's  fist  banged  on  the 
desk,  and  his  jaw  grew  even  more  angular.  "Pat's 
right.  The  Hydraulic  has  always  been  an  open  shop, 
and  open  she  stays  if  we  have  to  shut."  The  para 
dox  escaped  notice.  "How's  the  idea  of  the  Wel 
fare  Building  going  over,  Parker?"  this  to  a  short 
man,  of  Van  Dyke  beard  and  benevolent  gold 
spectacles  and  great  enthusiasms. 

"I'm  not  sure"  he  hesitated.  "Some  of  them 
undoubtedly  see  what  we're  after,  but  apparently  lots 
of  them  resent  what  they  consider  our  attempts  to 
amuse  them.  Not  many,  but  some  take  it  as  a  sop 
to  Cerbers.  Of  course,  I  just  got  that  'through 
channels.'  I  don't  know,  frankly,  how  it  is  going 
to  go.  We  must  make  a  big  thing  of  the  opening 
night." 

"What  are  you  planning  for  entertainment?" 
asked  Marshall. 

"Why,  that  has  rather  solved  itself.  There  is 
a  chap  in  the  hot-press  shop  named  Raleigh — a  most 
remarkable  fellow."  (David's  eyes  closed  slightly 
as  he  regarded  the  map  of  the  plant  innocently.) 
"He  came  to  me  the  other  day  and  said  that  he 
had  organized  a  quartet  and  wanted  to  know  if  he 
tould  give  a  concert  for  the  men  some  night  if  he 
worked  up  a  program.  Of  course,  I  was  delighted, 
and  kept  an  eye  on  him  after  that.  I  can't  make 
him  out,  nor  can  anyone  else.  He  is  obviously  well- 
educated.  Dutton  tells  me  that  he  has  gained  quite 
a  following  among  the  foreigners  because  he  has 
gotten  together  now  four  quartets — Bohemians, 


58  Chanting  Wheels 

Russians,  etc.  He's  been  here  only  a  month.  Takes 
them  in  rotation  down  at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  where  he 
lives  and  drills  them.  The  men  love  it.  He  seems  to 
know  music." 

"Jazz,  I  suppose,  Parker?"  said  Marshall  languid 
ly.  Marshall's  wife  had  finally  fashioned  out  of 
him  a  politely  appreciative  symphony  patron,  and  he 
had  reached  a  point  where  he  basked  a  little  in  the 
greatness  thrust  upon  him. 

"Jazz?  Not  much!  He  seems  to  be  making  a 
study  of  folk  music,  and  is  using  the  quartets  to 
that  end.  Told  me  he's  gotten  some  interesting 
material  especially  from  the  Kroatians.  Of  course, 
the  Italians  eat  out  of  his  hand,  for  he  speaks  their 
language  perfectly,  I  am  told.  He  talked  to  me  a 
lot  about  'musical  fundamentals'  and  the  'archaic 
modes'  and  the  'dominant  rhythm'  of  the  shops. 
I  confess,  it  was  too  deep  for  me." 

David  rose,  and  the  meeting  informally  split  up 
into  small  groups  as  the  men  departed.  As  he  left 
with  Parker,  David  was  saying,  "Have  posters  of 
the  concert  printed,  and  push  the  thing  all  you  can. 
If  he  has  a  nucleus  of  the  foreign  element  united 
round  him  like  that,  you  can't  tell  how  useful  he 
may  be."  As  he  climbed  into  his  own  car,  he  was 
smiling.  "The  young  rascal,"  he  muttered,  and 
rode  home  in  elation. 

Judgment  of  people  is  prone  to  fall  upon  the  level 
wherein  the  judge  or  jury  finds  itself  most  at  home. 
Clerics,  creed-stiff,  but  soaked  in  Izaac  Walton  to 
their  ecclesiastical  finger-tips,  have  consorted  with 


Fugues  and  Fists  59 

bar-keeps  over  flyfishing.  Poets  have  loved 
butchers  and  dubbed  them  kings  of  mentality 
because,  foresooth,  they  shared  base  ball  together, 
and  epicures  have  embraced  gourmands  on  the 
latter's  chance  declaration  of  truffles  as  the  best  of 
food.  The  world  still  looks  red  to  us  through  the 
bit  of  colored  glass. 

So  Raleigh,  in  his  fight  with  Mulgully,  touched 
the  spring  common  in  all  hearts,  and  measured  him 
self  by  the  shop's  own  scale.  On  music,  the  men 
might  be  dumb,  to  kindness  indifferent,  but  pluck 
they  knew.  His  quartets  undoubtedly  loved  him, 
but  to  the  majority  of  the  men  he  was  untried  in 
fundamentals,  was  different,  hence,  lacking  such 
trial,  damned. 

It  happened  in  this  wise,  over  a  thing  so  small  as 
a  pay  ticket.  The  pay  ticket,  resembling  an  express 
label,  and  with  the  hours  of  work  done  during  the 
week  tabulated  down  one  side  of  it,  required  signa 
ture  in  full  on  the  afternoon  preceding  the  great 
Lupercal,  pay  day.  Raleigh  was  sitting  devouring 
ham  sandwiches  and  grease,  one  of  a  group  clustered 
for  warmth  round  a  cradle  of  cooling  billets,  in  the 
inspection  room.  Giovanni  Montefiore,  swart  and 
ecstatic,  waved  a  bologna  in  one  hand  and  a  pickle 
in  the  other,  and  rolled  his  dark  eyes  heavenward  in 
delight,  as  Raleigh  recounted  an  episode  in  Tivoli, 
involving  a  drunken  German  officer  and  a  pretty 
Italian  girl.  Raleigh  swung  from  Italian  to  English 
and  back  again,  and  the  men  gaped  in  awe.  All 
save  Mulgully,  the  man  of  the  retreating  forehead, 


60  Chanting  Wheels 

who  sat  upon  one  corner  of  the  inspection  table, 
sneering  to  Doolins,  and  eating  noisily.  Raleigh 
finished  his  tale. 

"Ah,  marvilioso!"  sighed  Giovanni,  with  true 
Latin  bliss  in  the  dramatic,  as  Clarkson,  a  wan  little 
clerk  with  a  perpetually  wilted  collar  and  strings  of 
lank  hair,  appeared  with  the  pay  tickets.  Raleigh 
took  his  to  the  inspector's  table,  for  writing  surface, 
and  signed — Dante  Rossetti  Raleigh.  Mulgully, 
looking  over  his  shoulder,  burst  into  volcanic 
expletive. 

"Hey,  bo — "  he  sneered  to  Doolins,  "get  this  for 
a  moniker — ",  he  bent  down  to  read.  "Dant 
Rossitty  Raleigh — what  the  hell  do  you  know  about 
that!"  Then,  with  loud  inspiration — "Rosy!"  he 
cried.  "Ain't  that  a  swell  name  now.  Rosy!" 
His  thick  lips  mouthed  it,  and  his  little  eyes  twinkled 
malevolently. 

The  men  grinned  and  waited.  This  demanded 
prompt  repartee  in  kind,  or  the  silence  of  defeat. 
Raleigh  straightened  to  his  full  height,  which  still 
brought  his  eyes  below  those  of  Mulgully,  a  giant. 

"My  name's  Dante,"  he  said  quietly,  tapping  the 
card  in  his  hand.  His  thoughts  raced  curiously, 
kaleidoscopic.  "Now  there'll  be  a  row.  I  hate 
fighting.  If  they  only  understand  anything  but 
physical  success.  Freddy'll  loathe  me  if  I  don't — 
what  a  beast  this  chap  looks" — He  waited. 

Mulgully  rolled  his  lips  like  a  rooting  pig.  "Ah, 
hell,"  he  sneered,  thickly,  turning  a  little  aside,  but 
looking  at  Raleigh  a-slant  under  heavy  lids,  his 


Fugues  and  Fists  61 

straight  greasy  hair  dropping  to  his  rough  brows. 
"You're  name's  Rosy — Rosy — see?"  He  turned 
swaggering  away  towards  Doolins. 

The  little  group  of  men  stirred  slightly — Raleigh 
saw  the  unmistakable  smile  pass.  It  must  be  now. 
He  whipped  out  a  hand  and  swung  Mulgully  to 
wards  him. 

"You're  quite  wrong,"  he  enunciated  sweetly, 
with  an  almost  pedantic  exactness  of  diction.  "My 
name  is  Dante — Dan  to  my  friends.  I  don't  care 
to  have  my  middle  name  twisted  into  an  uncouth 
jest  by  a  vulgar  fool.  Is  that  clear?" 

Clear  or  not,  his  eyes  and  jaw  made  proclamation 
in  language  which  even  Mulgully  and  the  men  could 
understand.  Mulgully  leaned  toward  him  and  began 
to  curse. 

"Why,  you ." 

Raleigh  raised  his  hand,  delicately. 

"Your  breath  is  bad,"  he  remarked  with  com 
plete  detachment,  then  suddenly  flattened  his  hand 
against  Mulgully's  mouth,  and  thrust  him,  lunging, 
back. 

Instantly  he  rushed,  blind  mad.  Raleigh  ex 
pectant,  side-stepped,  and  drove  to  the  other's  jaw. 
With  a  guttural  grunt  of  rage,  the  bigger  man 
rocked  a  moment.  Then  he  turned  and  rushed 
again.  This  time  there  was  no  avoiding.  They 
clinched,  and  Raleigh  felt  his  ribs  crack  as  Mulgully 
hammered  viciously  at  his  kidneys.  Like  a  slender 
spring  Raleigh  bent  himself  and  broke  from  the 
clinch,  his  head  whirling,  his  body  racked.  He 


62  Chanting  Wheels 

saw  it  was  a  question  of  keeping  out  of  the  way. 
He  danced  round  Mulgully  lightly,  landing  blows 
at  which  the  other  shook  his  head  like  a  bull  at 
flies. 

For  a  few  moments  the  fight  rested  there.  Mul 
gully  continued  his  rushes — Raleigh,  ever  retreating, 
dancing,  watched  for  a  place  to  land — watched  for 
openings.  They  came — head,  stomach,  kidneys — 
Mulgully  laid  them  all  bare.  "No  science,"  thought 
Raleigh  through  a  nebula  of  pain  "but  my  God- 
he  can't  be  hurt."  It  was  so.  Raleigh's  blows 
landed  again  and  again,  but  produced  no  more  effect 
than  a  woodpecker  on  an  iron  pole. 

Both  men  were  panting  now.  Raleigh,  jarred  by 
a  crashing  blow  on  the  jaw,  was  losing  something  of 
his  springing,  dancing  retreat.  As  he  circled,  he 
glimpsed  the  crowd  of  watching  men,  and  even  to 
his  blurring  mind  came  the  similarity  of  expression 
to  that  of  an  audience  he  had  once  seen  at  a  bull 
fight.  Then  Govanni's  face  swung  into  vision,  an 
olive  epitome  of  apprehension,  and  McGill  his  eyes 
black  with  excitement,  his  plume  of  hair  rampant, 
his  features  mirroring  fear,  affection,  pride. 

Raleigh's  mind  was  working  with  a  strange 
detachment.  He  was  getting  licked,  licked,  because 
he  was  not  as  big  as  the  other  man — and  the  work 
men  would  always  sneer  at  him — there  was  nothing, 
then  but  superiority  of  muscles,  and  a  navvy  might 
make  mockery  of  a  Wagner  if  he  got  him  in  a  fight. 
Fiercely  he  rebelled  against  the  animality  of  such  a 
standard — he  caught  McGill's  eye  for  a  moment — 


Fugues  and  Fists  63 

and  read  an  imploring  and  a  support  there.  Well — 
that's  all  there  was  to  it — to  justify  himself — that 
was  easy — but  he  must  justify  Freddy's  belief  in 
him.  But  Fred  believed  in  him  anyhow — or  else  he 
was  not  worth  the  having.  Why  not  stop  then,  at 
once,  before  Mulgully  hammered  him  into  oblivion? 
As  the  question  framed,  Mulgully's  fist  reached  the 
point  of  his  chin,  and  Raleigh  felt  his  head  snap 
back,  with  skippering  little  chains  of  light  at  the 
back  of  his  brain,  and  a  whirling  rush  of  color  as 
the  whole  shop  rose  suddenly  into  the  air,  as  in  an 
elevator  that  he  was  not  in. 

He  found  suddenly  that  he  was  on  the  ground, 
Mulgully  above  him.  The  question  repeated — why 
go  on?  After  all  he  was  right — that  was  all  that 

mattered, there  were  shouts  that 

reached  him  dimly,  then  he  heard  McGill's  voice 
and  felt  a  hand  under  his  head.  He  shook  it  off,  and 
clambered  to  his  feet,  the  world  spinning  like  a  top 
tilting  on  an  uneven  axis.  He  saw  Mulgully  facing 
him,  his  face  a  sneer.  Raleigh  fell  toward  him, 
his  hands  going  mechanically.  He  heard  dim  cries 
.  .  .  "Hell,  that's  enough — let  the  kid  alone — 
he's  all  in  .  .  ." 

Mulgully  fended  him  off  easily;  then  Raleigh 
slipped  past  his  loose  guard,  and  felt  his  fist  sink  into 
the  soft  part  of  the  other's  eye.  The  big  man 
snarled  surprise,  and  crashed  through  Raleigh's 
arms  to  his  chest.  This  time  he  went  flat — writhed 
— staggered  up  swaying  drunkenly,  seeing  only 
Mulgully's  face  through  a  darkening  veil  of  pain. 


64  Chanting  Wheels 

It  was  like  taking  gas,  only  not  so  pleasant,  he 
thought.  The  last  thing  he  remembered  was  falling 
slowly  toward  Mulgully,  feeling  an  impact,  and  he 
was  on  the  floor  again — then,  somehow,  came  the 
feeling  that  the  world  had  metamorphosed  slowly 
into  a  huge  inverted  cone,  with  Mulgully's  face  at 
the  small  end  of  it,  the  sneer  wiped  off,  an  expres 
sion  of  wonder  there  instead — and  something  else — 
he  couldn't  quite  see — the  cone  whirled  so.  He  was 
falling  down  the  cone  upon  Mulgully's  face  .  .  . 
he  mustn't  land  feet  first — perhaps — but  then, 
lumberjacks  stamped  each  other's  faces,  didn't  they? 
But  he  had  a  mind,  and  fine  feeling — down,  down, 
down.  The  cone  dissolved  into  twisting  like  sparks, 
possibly  atoms — that  vanished  in  darkness,  with  a 
crying  of  "ning-ning-ning-ning"  throbbing  through 
it  ...  Mulgully's  face  turned  into  a  black  cloud 
that  was  almost  invisible,  and  suddenly,  through  the 
dark  mist  of  it,  he  saw  that  eyes  had  grown  suddenly 
all  over  the  face,  like  seeds  in  a  pomegranate.  The 
eyes  cried  upon  him  in  streams,  cold,  cold  tears- 
tears  without  salt  somehow,  that  ran  down  his  neck, 
and  as  they  ran,  talked  to  him  ...  it  was 
McGill's  voice  that  they  used — he  could  almost  make 
out  the  words  "That's  all  right,  boy — it's  all  right, 
kid — are  yuh  comin'  round,  buddy?"  The  tears 
flowed  even  more  strongly.  There  really  was  no 
need  for  Mulgully  to  weep  like  that,  and  with  all 
those  eyes  too — it  seemed  an  almost  indecent  display 
of  lachrymose  potentiality,  "just  as  if  he'd  had  an 
eruption  of  eyes,  and  was  showing  'em  off," 


Fugues  and  Fists  65 

Raleigh  thought — and  they  were  damned  cold, 
too  .  .  . 

He  put  up  his  hand  to  brush  them  off,  and  opened 
his  own  eyes,  to  find  McGill  supporting  his  head, 
and  sousing  him  with  water.  Mulgully  was  bend 
ing  over  him — and  his  face  still  wore  the  expression 
of  wonder — and  through  his  blackening  eye  gleamed 
a  profound  respect.  Raleigh  started  up — he  mustn't 
quit — he  was  on  his  feet,  swaying  dizzily,  and 
mechanically  his  hands  went  up  to  guard  as  he  tot 
tered  toward  Mulgully. 

But  that  worthy  hastily  seized  Raleigh's  wrists  in 
a  titanic  grip,  and  grinned — a  warm  grin,  a  grin 
of  geniality.  His  big  voice  boomed  out. 

"That's  all  right  kid — you're  not  licked — hell — " 
he  rumbled  wordlessly. 

Raleigh  still  gazed,  his  head  tingling  with  a  mil 
lion  sharp  pains. 

"Then — then  I'm  not  Rosy — or  anything  like 
that?" 

Mulgully's  rumbles  crescendoed  to  a  roar.  He 
clapped  one  hand  to  Raleigh's  shoulder,  and  gestured 
toward  his  own  bluish  eye  with  the  other. 

"I'll  say  you  ain't!  I  was  mistook.  Say" — sud 
denly  abashed  by  an  unwonted  emotion — "yu're  all 
right,  kid,  yuh  got  the  ole'  stuff.  Will  yuh  shake?" 

Raleigh  let  out  a  deep  breath.  "Why,  of  course," 
he  replied  simply,  and  his  hand  crunched  under  the 
other's  huge  fingers.  With  a  warm  pressure,  he 
turned  away.  He  wanted  to  get  out — to  be  alone. 
Though  he  knew  his  point  was  won,  and  that  the 


66  Chanting  Wheels 

fight  was  after  all  to  him,  the  reaction  was  strong 
upon  him,  and  he  hated  it  all  at  that  moment — as 
he  had  never  hated  anything  before  in  his  life — the 
coarseness,  the  dirt — the  lack  of  intimate  intellectual 
companionship.  He  hated  even  his  quartets,  and 
thought  with  loathing  of  the  perspiring  faces  in  rows 
before  him,  and  the  rough  jests,  and  the  odor  of 
seldom  bathing.  A  wave  of  disgust  flooded 
through  him,  and  he  thought  suddenly  of  his  study 
at  college — of  the  three  windows  giving  out  to  the 
upper  porch — of  the  lines  of  dark,  finely  polished 
woodwork,  of  the  soft  hangings,  and  the  glow  of 
the  shaded  lamps,  and  the  look  of  the  bowl  of  roses 
under  it,  on  his  tea-table,  and  the  fragrance  of  his 
beautifully  bound  books.  A  half  sob  of  protest  rose 
to  his  throat. 

He  felt  a  big  arm  flung  across  his  shoulders,  and 
raised  his  head  to  McGill,  who  had  followed  him  as 
he  walked  blindly  out  into  the  crane  yard.  McGill 
looked  at  him  with  a  strange  tenderness.  His  voice 
shook. 

"God — Dan — you're  a  bundle  o'  nerve  to  stand  up 
to  that  big  hunk  of  cheese  like  that.  You — I"  he 
fumbled  huskily  for  words — "I'd  go  through  hell 
for  you,  Dan,"  he  finished  awkwardly,  his  arm  tight 
ening  round  Raleigh's  bent  shoulders. 

The  boy  glanced  sidewise  at  McGill,  at  the  sculp 
tured  lines  of  his  head  and  throat,  and  met  his  eyes, 
suspiciously  bright,  and  glowing  deeply.  His  mood 
broke  suddenly,  and  he  laughed,  a  little  unsteadily, 
and  laid  a  swollen  hand  on  the  other's  arm. 


Fugues  and  Fists  67 

"Thanks,  Freddy,"  he  said  quietly,  but  with  every 
thing  in  his  tone. 

Quite  suddenly,  all  was  right.  He  looked  up  at 
the  brilliant  sun,  and  round  at  the  crane  yard.  Some 
how  it  was  all  quite  beautiful — the  crane,  crouched 
like  a  giant  spider,  with  a  web  of  cables  stretching 
pattern-wise,  its  angled  arms  softened  by  the  snow. 
The  sky  gleamed  pure  turquoise,  and  in  the  winter 
air  had  mysteriously  woven  a  thread  of  spring. 
Years  afterward,  Raleigh  remembered  the  crane  yard 
of  that  morning,  an  etching  in  brown  and  white, 
with  the  sky  cut  into  blue  triangles  by  its  cables ;  the 
far-off  whisper  of  spring  like  the  fragrance  of 
laurel  under  snow,  and  McGill's  fine  eyes  on  him. 
Something  had  adjusted  between  himself  and  his 
surroundings  and  the  charm  that  had  lain  for  him 
in  the  picture  of  his  study  had  laid  itself  like  a  spell 
)n  his  present  entourage.  No  longer  he  was  banished 
rom  the  world  he  loved ;  bigger,  more  vital,  stronger, 
it  was  here  around  him.  He  laughed  suddenly  into 
McGill's  deep  eyes. 

The  whistle  sounded,  and  they  turned  into  the 
shop.  As  they  reached  the  door  of  the  hot-press 
shop,  they  passed  Mulgully.  Raleigh  dug  him 
gently  in  the  ribs,  and  grinned  into  his  face. 

"You  can  call  me  Rosy  all  you  like  now,"  he  said 
astonishingly,  and  hastened  to  his  press. 

And  Rosy  he  became,  proudly,  to  the  men  of  the 
shop,  who  needed  but  this  throne  of  unbeaten  cour 
age  to  exalt  him. 

Two  nights  thereafter,  Mulgully  appeared  at  a 


68  Chanting  Wheels 

quartet  rehearsal  and  said  "he  reckoned  he  could 
make  as  much  noise  as  the  next  one."  He  demanded 
to  be  taken  in,  and  sang  with  a  blissful  disregard  of 
pitch,  rhythm,  or  text,  but  with  such  childlike  glee 
that  Raleigh  had  not  the  heart  to  say  him  nay,  realiz 
ing  that  he  was  vaguely  trying  to  make  amends  by 
interesting  himself  in  Raleigh's  doings.  So  he  tucked 
him  into  an  inconspicuous  place  and  hushed  as  far  as 
possible  his  fearful  rumblings.  Thereafter  he  re 
mained,  an  amiable  thunderstorm  of  muttering 
delight.  With  true  Hellenic  assimilation,  Raleigh 
used  him  for  a  background  of  presses  in  a  shop 
chanty  he  was  composing. 


CHAPTER  VI 

INDIGESTIBLE  MANNA 

A  WEEK  later,  as  lights  began  to  glimmer  from 
shops  and  motors,  Raleigh  dropped  off  his  car 
at  the  Y.M.C.A.,  and  made  his  way  to  the  letter 
boxes.  As  usual,  the  lobby  seemed  made  up  of  men 
in  a  state  of  arrested  tranquillity;  most  of  them 
seemed  to  be  sitting  waiting  for  something.  A  few 
read;  some  talked.  From  the  pool-room  came  the 
click  of  balls;  from  the  cafeteria  the  effulgence  of 
food  and  the  clacking  of  heavy  dishes.  An  odor  pe 
culiar  to  the  place,  and  no  other,  hung  in  the  air — a 
synthetic  smell,  composite  of  steam,  restaurant,  the 
rubber-and-soapy-sweat  odor  of  a  gymnasium,  and 
some  curious  negative  quality — perhaps  the  lack  of 
much  tobacco-smoke  in  a  masculine  entourage. 
Every  Y.M.C.A.  has  it. 

Raleigh  crossed  to  the  desk,  and  asked  for  his 
mail.  After  some  delay  the  clerk,  a  man  with  stern 
eyes  and  a  scarred  cheek,  opened  his  box  and  handed 
him  his  mail.  Raleigh's  eyes  danced  at  one  of  the 
letters — in  a  hand  he  didn't  know — small,  regular, 
with  short  loops  and  graceful  capitals  and  even  com- 

69 


70  Chanting  Wheels 

pression.     He  jagged  it  open  with  a  quick  fore 
finger. 

"Dear  Mr.  Raleigh"  it  read.  "You  are  quite 
right ;  I  didn't  play  fair.  Mr.  Culhane  told  me  about 
you,  and  I  guessed  you  as  the  person  he'd  described. 
Will  you  come  to  tea  Thursday  at  five  thirty  ?  And 
bring  Pelleas  and  Melisande  with  you.  I  live  directly 
across  from  Mr.  Harde,  and,  as  you  are  free  at 
three-thirty  you  can  make  it  without  trouble,  I 
think. 

"Sincerely 

"Eleanor  Grayson." 

Chuckling,  he  turned  to  the  other  letter.  It  was 
from  his  uncle,  asking  him  to  dinner — for  Thursday 
night;  the  first  notice  that  august  gentleman  had 
given  of  his  existence.  He  grinned.  Things  moved. 
In  high  mood,  he  turned  again  to  the  desk. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  sa:d,  "there's  some  things  of 
mine  have  come  by  express.  They're  in  the  base 
ment  area-way.  Can  I  get  them  taken  up  to  my 
room?" 

The  clerk  turned  to  someone  he  was  serving  with 
towel-tickets,  and  looked  at  Raleigh  as  a  king  might 
look  at  a  cat. 

"You'll  have  to  see  the  janitor  of  the  building," 
he  replied,  professionally  affable.  "We  don't  take 
care  of  these  things."  He  started  to  turn  back. 

"Where'll  I  find  him?"  asked  Raleigh,  his  mood 
of  good  humor  suddenly  quenched  as  by  cool  chemi- 


Indigestible  Manna  71 

cals.  What  was  this  powerful  thing  that  they  were 
all  able  to  convey  without  words,  this  subtlety  of 
superiority,  like  a  saint  set  in  a  dance  hall,  and 
benevolently  halo-ing  surrounding  sinners  into 
oblivion? 

The  clerk  turned  to  him  with  the  wearidom  of 
martyrs.  "I  don't  know."  Then,  reluctantly,  "His 
room  is  in  the  basement  beyond  the  auditorium." 

Raleigh  sought  the  janitor.  His  blue-denimed 
legs,  thrust  atop  a  window  ledge,  never  moved,  nor 
did  his  eyes  lift  from  the  paper  that  held  him  thrall. 

"Have  to  git  a  permit  from  the  office,"  he  grunted. 
"Fer  the  elevator  man  to  move  them  things." 

"But  they  sent  me  to  you,"  answered  Raleigh  as 
pleasantly  as  possible.  "I  want  to  get  them  up  to 
night  if  I  can." 

The  janitor  rolled  an  eye  toward  him,  then  rolled 
it  down  again  and  jigged  his  paper.  Raleigh  stamped 
out  and  banged  the  door  quite  childishly  behind  him. 

He  went  to  the  basement  area-way,  and  dragged 
his  boxes  toward  the  elevator  and  pressed  the  button. 
The  car  descended  and  ascended  to  the  main  floor 
above  him  and  only  after  indignant  peals  descended 
to  the  basement.  Raleigh  tugged  at  his  boxes;  the 
elevator  man  watched  with  detachment  for  a  minute, 
and  then  began  to  close  the  elevator  door. 

"Here!"  Raleigh  straightened  brusquely,  present 
ing  a  red  face.  "Give  me  a  hand  with  these,  will 
you?" 

"We  carry  no  freight  'cept  in  the  morning"  he 
said  flatly.  He  went  off  duty  in  five  minutes,  and 


72  Chanting  Wheels 

had  no  intention  of  having  the  flight  clogged  with 
furniture  moving  above.  He  again  began  to  close 
the  door. 

"Oh  damn !"  Raleigh  set  his  foot  in  the  door  and 
glared.  "Why  does  everyone  in  this  place  try  to 
make  things  as  nasty  as  they  can?" 

The  elevator  man  stared — and  bristled.  With  the 
contempt  for  the  poor  that  employees  of  institutions 
always  have,  he  saw  only  a  raggedly  dressed  big  lad 
in  a  rage.  "Who  duh  you  think  you  are?"  he 
sneered,  with  the  patronage  of  which  only  a  servant 
when  he  rr.kth  is  capable. 

Raleigh  rew  very  composed.  "Help  me  on  with 
these  thing  ,  please"  he  said  briefly.  "Or  I'll  see 
that  you're  Dismissed.  Ever  hear  of  David  Harde?" 

David's  continued  and  conspicuous  donations  to 
the  Y.M.C.A.  had  haloed  his  name  there  with  a 
light  that  shone  even  unto  the  elevator  man.  His 
face  changed. 

"Yes.    Well  he's  my  uncle." 

Somehow  the  man  saw  beneath  Raleigh's  dirt  at 
that  moment.  The  boxes  came. 

An  hour  later,  Raleigh's  six  by  twelve  coffin  of  a 
room  was  transformed.  Most  of  the  plaster-finished 
rooms  were  of  a  green  nauseous  beyond  belief;  but 
a  few  had  escaped  the  eye  of  the  contractor,  and 
bloomed  in  a  cheery  and  neutral  buff.  Of  such  was 
Raleigh's.  Now,  with  chintz  at  the  window  and 
pillows  on  the  couch,  and  Cezanne  on  the  wall,  it 
was  transformed.  Raleigh  kicked  the  packing  paper 
into  the  hall  and  fled  to  the  pool  for  a  swim. 


Indigestible  Manna  73 

By  some  architectural  stupidity,  the  inmates  of  the 
Y.M.C.A.  could  not  go,  comfily  bathgowned,  from 
their  rooms  direct  to  the  pool  and  showers,  save  by 
emerging  upon  a  fire-escape,  crossing  a  roof,  and 
pounding  on  a  door  leading  to  the  track.  This  pil 
grimage  with  a  two  below  zero  wind  was  not  in 
viting.  And  the  door  was  always  locked  from 
within,  anyhow. 

In  the  elevator  was  the  usual  gathering  of  young 
men — and  some  not  so  young — some  who  were  be 
ginning  to  lose  the  firm  outline  of  cheek  and  jaw, 
and  about  whose  eyes  were  gathering  a  web  of 
creases;  men  who  had  not  arrived,  and  who,  short 
of  a  miracle  would  not,  now.  Some  of  them  had 
reached  the  tragic  period  of  realization.  The  self- 
doubts,  the  vague,  grey  wonderings  of  what  was 
wrong  with  them,  why  life  had  not  given  them  what 
ten  years  ago  they  had,  with  laughter  tipped  lips, 
sought,  was  beginning  to  weigh  them  down. 

Raleigh  looked  them  over,  quickly,  as  was  his 
wont,  and  nodded  to  one  or  two  whom  he  knew, 
with  the  curiously  negative  feeling  one  has  for  peo 
ple  whom  one  meets  who  mean  nothing.  Raleigh's 
psychology  professor  had  once  called  him  an  es 
thetic  anteater,  who  eagerly  thrust  forth  a  long 
tongue  of  curiosity  and  tasted  every  personality  that 
came  before  him  even  for  a  moment.  Thus  he 
tasted  the  group  in  the  elevator — one  was  roast  beef, 
with  heavy  coloring  and  heavy  ear  lobes,  one  evi 
dently  horse  radish,  with  his  peaky  ears  and  small 
bristled  moustache  and  sharp  grey  suit. 


74  Chanting  Wheels 

Then  he  stopped  tasting,  and  took  a  large  mental 
bite  of  a  boy  slouched  against  the  side  of  the  car. 
His  narrow  face  seemed  inadequate  setting  for  huge 
eyes  that  glittered  restlessly,  and  darted  from  one 
person  to  another  with  a  brilliance  oddly  variant 
with  his  relaxed  attitude.  They  seemed  his  only 
really  alive  features.  His  clothing  hung  slackly  on 
him,  and  the  frayed  edge  of  his  soft  collar  stuck  up 
under  one  ear. 

The  entrance  to  the  locker  room  was  barred  by  an 
iron  grill,  and  one  had  to  demand,  and  pay  for, 
towels  and  soap  at  his  portcullis,  or  go  dripping.  A 
small  stooped  man  with  moustaches  like  grizzled 
tufts  of  squirrel  tails  presided  over  the  grill,  a  quere- 
lous  Cerberus.  Raleigh  heard  the  boy  ask  for  towels 
and  soap.  He  always  felt  the  towels  were  cast-off 
napkins  from  the  cafeteria — in  size  and  textures 
they  seemed  so. 

"Where's  yer  ticket?"  asked  the  attendant. 

The  boy  looked  blank,  and  muttered  something  in 
broken  English.  The  attendant  withdrew  the  towel  • 

"Ticket"  he  snapped  "you  have  to  have  your  ticket 
from  the  office — get  it  at  the  desk." 

The  boy  turned  a  bewildered  face  to  Raleigh. 

"What  he  say?" 

The  man  bellowed,  after  the  manner  of  folk  who 
'construe  lack  of  English  into  deafness. 

"TICKET— get  yer  ticket  at  the  DESK."  He 
turned  to  Raleigh,  who  had  produced  his  ticket. 
"Damn  dirty  foreigner"  he  growled. 

This  told.    With  a  snarl  of  sudden  rage  the  boy 


Indigestible  Manna  75 

flung  himself  at  the  grating.  Raleigh's  quick  hand 
on  his  shoulder  spun  him  about,  his  small  face  con 
gested  with  anger.  Raleigh  shook  his  head. 

"Don't,"  he  said  quietly.  "It's  no  good  doing 
that."  To  the  attendant,  "Here — take  it  off  my 
ticket." 

The  man's  face  had  flushed,  and  he  looked  ugly. 
"I'll,  I'll  report  him,"  he  stammered,  his  composure 
returning  slowly. 

Raleigh  looked  at  him.  "I  wouldn't,"  he  returned. 
"Perhaps  if  you  didn't  call  him  names  it  would  help 
some.  He  didn't  understand  you.  Let  us  by,  will 
you?" 

The  door  opened  grudgingly.  Raleigh  dropped  a 
sympathetic  hand  a  moment  to  the  lad's  shoulder. 
He  shot  him  a  quick  look  of  gratitude,  shyly  silent. 

In  the  glow  of  swimming,  the  boy's  tenseness  re 
laxed,  and  he  smiled  a  funny  crooked  little  smile 
when  encountering  Raleigh  at  one  corner. 

They  dressed  together,  chatting,  and  went  to  the 
cafeteria.  Raleigh  seized  a  tray  and  loaded  it.  His 
eyes,  practiced  through  a  year  of  restauranting  to 
small  economies,  noted  here  and  there  an  extra  cent 
or  so  that  adjacent  eating  houses  didn't  show. 

Hanson,  a  shoe  salesman,  turned  round  and 
grinned  when  Raleigh  nudged  him  with  the  tray. 

"Hello,  Raleigh.  Say,  I'm  off'n  this  place  after 
tonight."  Hanson  had  also  the  practiced  eye.  "They 
stick  a  cent  onta  everything,  and  then  act  like  they 
was  doing  you  a  favor  to  take  yer  coin.  Watch 
this  old  bird." 


76  Chanting  Wheels 

The  ancient  fowl  designated  was  a  middle  aged 
woman  presiding  sharply  over  the  cash-register  that 
terminated  the  line  of  food.  "Eighty-seven,"  she 
announced  dryly  to  Hanson. 

"Eighty-two,"  replied  Hanson  firmly.  He  had 
built  his  total  as  he  went  along,  and  liked  not  this 
unwonted  overtone  in  his  financial  chord. 

"Eighty-seven,"  replied  the  old  bird.  She  began 
chanting  a  litany  of  prices.  Hanson  stopped  her  at 
the  tea.  "Ten?  It's  five  on  your  menu  on  the  wall." 

"Five  for  a  cup — ten  for  a  pot.." 

"I  asked  for  a  cup — this  is  what  I  got.  Never 
drink  more  than  one  cup.  Don't  want  a  pot." 

The  old  bird  snapped  her  beak.  "I'll  take  it  off" 
she  snipped.  "No  gentleman  would  quarrel  over  a 
nickel." 

"No  gentleman  would  allow  himself  to  be  done 
by  a  nasty  little  graft,"  cut  in  Raleigh  hotly,  his 
tongue,  as  usual,  leading  him  into  vicarious  defense. 
Hanson,  who  had  not  the  gift  of  words,  beamed  at 
him  gratefully. 

"Atta  boy — you  tell  her,  kid." 

As  they  sat  down,  the  boy  of  the  pool  came  hesi 
tatingly,  with  a  meager  meal  islanded  on  his  tray. 
Raleigh  beckoned  to  him. 

"Sit  down.  Mr.  Hanson,  Mr. — I  don't  know  your 
name." 

"Smetana"  returned  the  boy.  Hanson  grunted, 
with  true  middle  class  Anglo-Saxon  suspicion  of 
anything  that  ends  in  a  vowel  and  does  not  expose 
three  inches  of  shaved  neck.  They  fell  to  eating. 


Indigestible  Manna  77 

"You  sure  told  her  where  to  get  off,"  champed 
Hanson  between  bites.  "Don't  it  beat  hell  how  they 
throw  it  up  to  you  all  the  time  like  they  was  handin' 
you  something  on  a  silver  plate  ?" 

Raleigh  nodded.  "Everyone  takes  the  attitude 
you  might  expect  at  a  charity  home.  They  reach 
hands  from  heaven  as  if  it  hurt  their  backs." 

Smetana's  huge  eyes  darkened.  "Dey  call  names, 
too"  he  muttered.  "Dey  say  foreigner — dey  say 
dirty.  I  not  dirty, — I  be  American  soon — I  join  de 
union " 

"Union?    Where?" 

"  'Ydraulic-Press-Steel." 

Raleigh  wondered  in  what  department  he  worked, 
but  didn't  let  on  that  he,  too,  had  a  number  and 
badge  in  Dutton's  office.' 

"Why,  that's  an  open  shop,  isn't  it?"  he  asked. 
"Why  do  you  join  a  union?" 

Smetana's  little  face  caught  fire  from  his  eyes 
and  became  suddenly  alive. 

"Cause  de  union,  he  protect  de  workin'  man.  We 
must'  'ave  living  wage — we  mus'  be  brudders  to 
gether — these  reech  men,  dey  want  all  money,  all 
'ting.  What  we  get  if  we  not  join  de  union?  Jus' 
work  all  tarn,  hard  all  tarn,  den  somet'ing  happen" 
— his  voice  dropped,  and  Raleigh,  watching  him, 
saw  his  face  harden  suddenly,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  something  stirred  in  the  depths  of  the  big  eyes, 
like  a  half -guessed  shadow  seen  at  the  bottom  of  a 
deep  pool.  It  was  only  for  an  instant,  but  Raleigh 
drew  a  quick  breath,  and  felt  a  cold  finger  on  his 


78  Chanting  Wheels 

spine.  That  look  was  no  parroting  of  the  jargon  of 
socialism  and  demagogues;  some  memory  had  stir 
red  the  boy  to  the  quick.  .  .  . 

"Aw,  rats !"  Hanson  cut  short  the  silence  angrily. 
"You  fellas  make  me  sick — you  never  think  of  any 
body  but  yourselves — you're  gettin'  more  pay  now 
than  you " 

"Hanse !"  Raleigh  held  up  a  warning  hand.  "No 
socialistic  arguments,  please.  It  ruins  my  digestion 
and  cramps  my  style.  Come  on — I'm  going  up  to 
my  room  and  smoke  a  cigarette,  and  break  one  of 
their  pet  rules." 

He  rose,  Hanson  with  him.  To  Smetana  he  said 
kindly.  "Drop  into  my  room  some  night,  will  you? 
I'd  like  to  talk  with  you.  I'm  in  513." 

"Yes,  sir,"  returned  the  boy,  still  flushed,  and  sud 
denly  shy  again.  Hanson  led  to  the  elevators. 

"Funny  gink,"  he  muttered,  looking  back  at  Smet 
ana.  "Rotten  egg,  I'd  say.  These  foreigners  make 
me  sick,  with  their  damned  bunk.  They're  the  kind 
that  make  all  the  trouble  in  this  man's  country." 

"Maybe  you're  the  kind,  Hanse." 

Hanson  stared  into  Raleigh's  grave  face.  "Me? 
How  do  you  get  that  way?" 

Raleigh  looked  at  him  soberly. 

"Hanse"  he  said,  "there's  an  old  Hindu  proverb 
that  says,  'Of  the  tree  of  discord,  its  fruits  are  battles 
and  bloodshed,  but  its  roots  are  intolerance  and  in 
tolerance.'  It's  true.  Smetana's  not  a  bad  sort — he 
justs  wants  to  be  shown.  But  we — who  have  been 
here  a  little  longer — we  turn  up  our  noses  at  him  and 


Indigestible  Manna  79 

the  millions  like  him  because  they  don't  talk  English 
and  have  ideas  that  differ  from  ours.  We  avoid  them 
like  the  plague.  Then  we  howl  frantically  because 
they  get  into  little  Italics  and  Slovakias  and  Bohe 
mias,  in  groups,  don't  learn  English,  misunderstand 
utterly  the  country,  fall  into  the  hands  of  rotten 
politicians  and  demagogues,  or  of  real  anarchists — 
and  presently  throw  bombs.  Nine-tenths  of  the 
foreign  trouble  is  our  own  fault." 

"Whew!"  grinned  Hanson — "got  yer  back  up, 
didn't  I?" 

"You  bet  you  did.  Some  time  I'll  take  you  all 
apart  and  put  you  together  on  the  foreign  question, 
my  dear  lad."  His  face  fell  suddenly  sober  again. 
"That's  not  what's  wrong  with  Smetana,  though. 
It's  something  deeper,  more  personal.  Something 
terrible 's  happened  to  the  boy.  Did  you  notice  his 
eyes  just  when  he  quit  talking?  Looked  like  there 
was  a  ghost  inside  them." 

Hanson  laughed. 

"Aw,  he's  just  sore  on  the  world.  I  don't  want 
'em  shooting  off  their  mouths  round  me,  that's  all. 
If  they  need  fixin',  that's  the  government's  job." 

Raleigh  clenched  hands  of  mock  despair  above 
his  head.  "Idiot !  That's  just  what  I  mean.  Did  it 
ever  occur  to  you  that  you  were  the  government  ?" 

This  held  Hanson  silent  half  way  up  in  the 
elevator. 

When  they  emerged — "Come  down  to  my  room 
for  a  little  game,  kid?" 

"Sorry — I've  got  to  write  letters."    Raleigh  would 


8o  Chanting  Wheels 

not  for  worlds  have  divulged  his  supreme  ignorance 
of  the  art  of  craps.  The  argot  was  thrilling ;  he  oc 
casionally  listened,  fascinated  by  the  incantations  and 
imploring  verbal  ritual.  But  the  miracle  that  occur 
red  when  everyone  looked  suddenly  disgusted  save 
one  person,  who  scrabbled  coins  toward  himself,  had 
never  dawned  upon  him. 

They  went  separate  ways  along  the  concrete  cor 
ridor.  The  corridors  were  a  source  of  delight  to 
Raleigh.  On  each  floor  they  were  the  same,  long 
and  square  and  regularly  lighted,  with  cement  floors 
ruled  like  a  sidewalk,  and  plaster  tinted  to  apple- 
green.  Applegreen,  when  flushing  along  the  sky  at 
sunset,  or  glowing  from  silken  folds  against  the 
warm  ivory  of  young  breasts,  and  apple  green  ap 
plied  to  vistas  of  plaster,  are  as  supple  body  to  dried 
corpse.  The  effect  of  the  well-meaning  contractors 
had  been  to  create  a  hospital  lustre  of  ghastly  bril 
liance  that  would  have  brought  nausea  to  a  goat. 

Raleigh  passed  rows  of  doors  regular  as  teeth  in 
a  comb,  let  himself  into  his  own  room,  and  sank  with 
a  sight  of  satisfaction  into  his  small  island  of  beauty. 
His  tall  lamp's  subdued  glow  lent  shadow  and  con 
sequent  space. 

He  had  slipped  into  a  sweater  and  lighted  a  ciga 
rette  with  the  added  zest  of  petty  crime,  when  there 
came  a  light  knock. 

"C'm  in"  bawled  Raleigh,  his  eyes  running  over  a 
quartet  arrangement  of  "Kentucky  Babe." 

The  door  opened  timidly  to  admit  the  Worm,  who 
gazed  at  Raleigh  with  envy,  awe,  disapproval  and 


Indigestible  Manna  81 

admiration  crowding  each  other  over  his  scant  face. 
Raleigh  waved  his  cigarette  to  the  one  chair. 

"Sit  down,  boy — what's  on  your  mind?" 

The  Worm — Raleigh  had  so  named  him  from  a 
characteristic  of  perpetual  writhing — gazed  with  his 
wide-spread  eyes  winking  regularly. 

"Gee,"  he  said  presently.  "Aren't  you  afraid 
they'll  catch  you  smok'n?" 

Raleigh  snorted.  "Do  they  suppose  they  can  keep 
five  hundred  young  men  from  smoking  simply  by 
making  rules — as  if  we  were  all  in  prep  schools !" 

"Tisn't  a  rule"  murmured  the  Worm,  sidling  into 
Raleigh's  chair  and  hugging  a  note-book  closer  to 
him.  "They  just  ask  us  not  to  smoke  cigarettes  in 
our  rooms." 

"Yes — and  then  snoop  to  see  whether  we  do  or 
not.  Much  better  make  it  an  out  and  out  rule.  They 
don't  come  out  square  on  it,  that's  what  annoys  me 
so.  'We  ask  you  not  to  smoke'  they  say  and  then 
pull  long  faces  if  you  do."  He  puffed  angrily,  and 
dropped  his  eyes  again  to  the  quartet  impatiently. 

By  this  the  Worm  should  have  wriggled  out.  But 
he  only  writhed  a  little  on  the  chair.  His  big  light- 
blue  eyes,  with  sparse  pale  lashes  like  occasional 
gorse  along  a  Highland  pool,  fixed  on  Raleigh.  He 
squirmed  with  embarrassment.  Raleigh  ignored 
him  for  a  moment,  then  sat  up,  laughed,  and  blew  a 
cloud  of  smoke  at  him. 

"What  is  it?  I'll  bet  you  want  me  to  subscribe 
to  something.  What's  up  ?" 

Thus  adjured,  the  Worm  rose  on  end 


82  Chanting  Wheels 

"I — I  wondered  if  you'd  come  to  the  Bible  class 
meeting  tonight,"  he  vouchsafed  shlyly. 

"No,  I  won't."  Then,  less  abruptly,  "I'm  sorry, 
old  boy,  but  I  honestly  don't  want  to.  I'd  be  no 
good  whatever." 

Clarkson's  eyes  winked  thrice  and  his  toes  stirred 
the  rug.  "We — we  thought  that  it  might  be  a  good 
thing  for  the  floor."  At  a  get-together  dinner  of  his 
floor  Raleigh  had  been  elected,  to  his  horror,  "Social" 
Chairman. 

Raleigh  grinned,  and  visioned  his  philosophy  class 
in  college.  "I  don't  think  that  it  would.  That's  not 
my  stunt,  you  know.  I'll  keep  the  floor  amused,  and 
get  up  parties  for  them — you  can  gather  the  lambs 
to  the  fold.  Now  run  along — I've  got  to  work — be 
a  good  child." 

But  the  Worm  was  the  willow  wand  of  which 
martyrs  are  fashioned.  He  bowed  at  pressure,  but 
sprang  back  to  position  with  the  patience  of  a 
snail. 

"We  wish  you'd  come"  he  said,  squirming  a  little. 

"Yes  Raleigh,  come  join  us,  my  boy"  boomed  a 
healthy  voice  from  the  doorway,  and  the  beaming 
face  of  Crawley,  the  religious  chairman,  shone  like 
a  sun  of  virtue  in  Raleigh's  door.  He  sniffed  still 
beaming. 

"Must  have  been  a  little  fire  in  here,"  he  glowed 
cheerfully,  with  a  knowing  wink  at  the  Worm,  who 
had  begun  undulating  genuflections  at  his  entrance. 
"Seems  to  me  I  smell  smoke." 

"It  speaks  volumes  for  your  olfactory  bulb"  re- 


Indigestible  Manna  83 

turned  Raleigh  smoothly.  "I  just  finished  a  particu 
larly  strong  cigarette.  Sit  down,  won't  you?" 

"No,  thank  you."  The  tolerance  of  his  smile  deep 
ened.  "I'm  just  trying  to  interest  the  boys  in  the 
Bible  class  tonight.  You  haven't  been  to  any  of  our 
weekly  meetings,  have  you,  Mr.  Raleigh?" 

They  focussed  on  Raleigh.  He  felt  exceedingly 
uncomfortable,  endured  the  battery  of  virtue  for  a 
moment,  then  succumbed. 

"Oh,  all  right — I'll  come  along.  How  long  does 
it  last?" 

"Just  an  hour"  purred  the  Worm.  His  big  eyes 
glowed,  and  he  licked  his  lips  a  little. 

"Little  ghoul — he's  tasting  my  saved  soul"  thought 
Raleigh,  between  exasperation  and  amusement.  He 
rose.  Crawley  left  them  in  the  corridor,  and  trotted 
off  to  new  fields. 

Raleigh  found  eight  or  ten  boys  grouped  round 
an  oldish  man  at  a  little  table,  a  Bible  spread  before 
him.  His  grey  hair  grew  up  harshly  from  a  slanted 
high  forehead,  like  frost  touched  bracken,  and  his 
little  eyes  peered  from  beneath  heavy  lids.  Large 
moustaches  further  eclipsed  his  chin.  Raleigh 
glanced  round.  It  was  a  miscellaneous  group.  All 
of  them  he  had  seen  at  odd  times,  but  usually  in  the 
fragmentary  nakedness  of  the  lavatories.  Hanson 
and  McAllister  grinned  at  him  from  the  couch, 
grinned  the  comradeship  of  the  unregenerate. 
Raleigh  struck,  as  usual,  an  original  color  note,  look 
ing  rather  like  the  Chesterfield  cigarette  man  in  his 
athletic  sweater  with  its  big  purple  letter.  The  old 


84  Chanting  Wheels 

man  at  the  table  slanted  a  haggletoothed  smile  in  his 
direction  and  held  out  a  horny  hand. 

"Good  evening,  my  young  friend,"  he  chanted. 
"My  name's  Brahley.  And  you  are " 

"Raleigh,  sir."  He  suddenly  foresaw  what  kind 
of  an  evening  it  was  to  be,  and  sank  beside  Hanson 
dismally.  The  latter  nudged  him  and  whispered  : 

"Roped  you  in,  too,  Kid  ?  I  jest  had  time  to  slip 
the  ivories  under  the  bed.  I  couldn't  break  away." 

Brahley  had  begun  to  gather  eyes,  and  held  up  a 
finger. 

"We'll  open  the  evening  with  prayer"  he  said 
firmly,  and  did.  At  the  end  heads  bobbed  up.  Every 
one  looked  at  everyone  else,  then  quickly  away,  with 
the  furtive  embarrassment  of  children  caught  de 
fending  belief  in  fairies.  Brahley  donned  spectacles. 

"Now  boys.  You  remember  we  talked  about  the 
miracles  last  time.  We're  a  going  to  talk  tonight 
about  the  greatest  miracle  of  all — the  virgin  birth. 
Lots  of  folks'll  tell  you  nowadays  it  ain't  so  at  all, 
but  they're  wrong."  He  picked  up  the  Bible  and 
began  to  read. 

Raleigh  gasped  in  outraged  amazement,  as  the 
monotonous  ignorant  voice  began  rooting  its  way 
through  the  exalted  and  frightening  beauty  of  the 
words.  The  group  listened ;  Hanson  and  McAllister 
exchanged  winks  and  whispers.  It  was  like  seeing 
a  beautiful  and  innocent  woman  stripped  by  careless 
hands  before  an  uncouth  crowd. 

The  voice  ceased.  Brahley  tucked  his  chin  under 
the  eaves  of  his  moustache  and  slowly  looked  round. 


Indigestible  Manna  85 

The  listeners  kept  their  eyes  on  the  floor — or 
ceiling. 

"Now,"  he  began  heavily.  "This  here's  the  abso 
lute  truth  what  I've  been  readin.'  This  book's  the 
voice  of  God;  and  it's  inspired — it's  the  divine  truth, 
every  single  word  of  it.  Folks'll  tell  you  it's  jest  a 
way  of  talkin' — that  these  sacred  words  ain't  straight 
from  the  mouth  o'  God." 

He  gazed  round  again  solemnly.    No  one  moved. 

"That's  the  devil's  voice  a'  speakin'.  People  that 
heark  to  that  voice  their  souls'll  suffer."  He  paused 
a  bit  helplessly.  Perhaps  he  felt  the  force  of 
Raleigh's  passionate  antipathy.  He  cleared  his 
throat.  "What  do  you  fellows  think  about  it?" 

No  eye  met  another  eye.  Feet  twitched  uneasily. 
An  embarrassment  hung  in  the  air  as  when  a  faux- 
pas  of  cosmic  proportion  buries  speech  under  an 
avalanche  of  silence.  To  the  casually  minded  youth 
of  twenty-four — the  American  youth,  his  soul  is  a 
thing  that  he  would  no  more  discuss  in  public  than 
he  would  his  navel  or  his  ideals.  It  is  essentially 
emotional  in  character,  and  like  all  emotions,  taboo 
for  conversation.  The  boys  squirmed  a  little.  It 
was  exquisite  torture.  The  silence  deepened  till  it 
was  oppressive.  Then  Raleigh  spoke,  more  to  break 
it  than  anything  else.  His  voice  had  a  draw  in  it 
like  the  cut  from  a  blade  of  grass. 

"Do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  we  are  to  be 
lieve  literally,  as  we  believe  a  surveyor's  report,  in 
every  word  in  the  Bible?" 

Brahley  nodded  solemnly.     The  others  breathed 


86  Chanting  Wheels 

with  relief.  Raleigh  brushed  his  hand  across  his 
eyes,  and  his  voice  carried  his  amazement. 

"You  mean — to  be  'saved,'  as  you  say,  one  must 
accept  as  literally  true  every  word  between  Genesis 
and  Revelation  on  the  face  value  of  the  very  words? 
That,  phrased  as  you  read  them,  they  came  straight 
from  God?" 

By  this  time  they  were  all  looking  at  Raleigh. 
Hanson  pinched  him  shyly,  but  he  was  too  much  in 
earnest  to  notice.  Brahley  frowned  and  tapped  the 
Bible  with  his  thumb-nail. 

"My  young  friend,  this  is  the  work  of  God,  and 
the  words  of  God  are  inspired  straight  from  the 
heavenly  throne." 

"I  see.  But  which  words  ?  The  original  Hebrew 
and  Greek,  or  the  later  Greek,  or  the  classical  Latin, 
or  the  Vulgate,  or  the  King  James  version?  Even 
the  sense  of  a  passage  is  affected  by  translations  like 
that.  Which  words  are  literally  true?" 

Brahley  lost  his  temper.  He  was  an  earnest  man 
in  his  way,  and  he  wrongly  sensed  ridicule  back  of 
Raleigh's  question.  He  swept  his  arm  out. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that"  he  thundered. 
"But  it  don't  take  no  high-fallutin'  learnin'  to  know 
God's  truth.  Whatta  I  care  bout  Greek  and  Latin 
and  things  like  that?  This  here  book  is  inspired 
from  heaven  direct,  every  word  of  it." 

Raleigh  flamed.  Here  was  his  lifelong  foe, 
mounted,  stirruped  and  helmeted — narrowness 
riding  the  hoofs  of  ignorance. 

"I    suppose    you    include    the    punctuation"    he 


Indigestible  Manna  87 

snapped  hotly,  and  instantly  regretted  it,  as  titters  cul-- 
minated  in  a  guffaw  or  two.  Brahley  flushed  heavily, 

"Look  here,  young  man,  if  you  came  here  to  ridi 
cule  and  laugh " 

"Pardon  me.  I  didn't.  I  shouldn't  have  said  that. 
I'm  sorry.  I  had  no  intention  of  offending  you.  I 
thought  discussion  was  what  you  wanted."  He  half 
rose.  Hanson  pulled  him  down.  Hanson  was  hugely 
enjoying  himself. 

"It  is."  This  unexpectedly  from  one  of  the  boys 
sitting  on  the  floor,  a  dark-eyed  swarthy  lad  with 
strong  features.  "I'm  studying  chemistry  here. 
Science  teaches  you  that  the  laws  of  nature  can't  be 
broken.  In  the  Bible  they're  broken  all  the  time. 
How  about  it?" 

Brahley  felt  the  tides  of  doubt  rising  about  him 
and  his  own  impotence  to  climb  to  loftier  levels  for 
defense.  He  turned  on  Raleigh  as  the  cause  of  the 
flood. 

"Young  man" — with  an  accusing  forefinger — "do 
you  or  do  you  not  believe  in  the  Immaculate 
Conception?" 

"If  you  mean  a  distortion  of  biology,  I  certainly 
do  not." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Brahley's  eyes 
turned  up  and  closed,  and  his  lips  began  to  move. 
He  folded  his  thumbs  across  his  stomach. 

Raleigh  bounced  to  his  feet  "Don't  you  dare  to 
pray  at  me,"  he  cried  like  a  whip-crack.  It  jerked 
Brahley's  eyes  open  to  a  stupefied  stare.  The  room 
jumped.  Raleigh  swept  on. 


88  Chanting  Wheels 

"This  is  the  sort  of  thing  that  makes  atheists,  this 
stupid  bickering  about  petty  things.  You  talk  about 
direct  literal  inspiration  of  every  word  in  the  Bible. 
What  possible  difference  does  it  make?  You  could 
change  every  phrase,  and  still  keep  the  thought  that 
revolutionized  the  religion  of  half  a  world.  No, 
listen  to  me." 

Brahley  had  tried  to  speak. 

"If  it  makes  you  happier  or  better  to  believe  them 
literally,  do  so.  But  please  let  me  keep  my  science 
in  my  mind  and  my  belief  in  my  heart,  where  they 
don't  fight.  To  me,  it  is  a  cheap  thing  to  think  that 
nature's  most  fundamental  law  was  broken  or  dis 
torted  so  that  Christ  could  be  born.  Isn't  he  a  much 
bigger  person  born  like  any  other  man,  without  any 
headstart?  And  what  does  it  matter  whether  the 
loaves  and  fishes  did  multiply,  or  the  dead  man  did 
rise?  The  important  thing — the  beautiful  thing — is 
that  spiritual  beauty  spread,  and  a  man  got  a  new 
conceptional  life  that  did  make  him  over  from  dead 
to  living. 

"You  bury  the  beauty  and  the  bigness  of  it  under 
little  crumbs  of  bickering."  He  stopped  suddenly, 
head  up,  his  back  against  the  wall.  The  group  around 
the  room  had  perked  up  on  spines-ends  like  splinters 
to  a  magnet.  They  looked  with  horror  or  delight 
from  one  to  the  other.  The  fight  instinct  glowed  in 
their  eyes. 

Then  Brahley  found  words  and  breath,  and 
clamored  heavily. 

"Young  man"  his  voice  was  sepulchral  "if  you 


Indigestible  Manna  89 

want  to  save  your  soul  you'd  better  pray  to  God  to 
make  you " 

But  Raleigh  cut  in,  his  short  stock  of  patience 
gone. 

"I've  no  desire  to  have  my  soul  discussed  by  you 
or  anyone  else.  I — I  care  too  much  for  spiritual 
beauty  to  hear  it  mangled  in  public  by  someone  hired 
for  the  purpose."  The  door  banged  behind  him.  He 
raced  down  the  corridor,  a  flag  drenched  in  a 
thunderstorm. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  as  he  was  gazing  un- 
seeingly  out  of  the  window,  Hanson,  McAllister  and 
two  others  burst  into  his  room,  roaring  with  ex 
citement. 

"Boy — boy — I'll  say  you  can  tell  'em,"  cried  Han 
son.  "Old  Brahley  is  up  in  the  air  and  spread  out 
like  a  planked  fish.  Says  you're  goin'  to  hell  sure. 
My  God,  what  does  he  take  us  for,  a  crowd  of  Sun 
day  School  kids  ?  I'd  like  to  hear  some  more  of  your 
dope  sometime — it  listens  like  sense,  but  this  Christer 
stuff " 

McAllister  leaned  over  Raleigh.  "Come  on,  boy — 
we're  all  goin'  down  to  Fortunio's — it's  early  yet,  an' 
then  I  know  where  you  can  dance  with  some  swell 
queens — I  know  a  little  lady  who " 

Hanson  joined.  "Come  on,  Raleigh — let's  go. 
Fortunio's  got  everything — cocktails,  hookers " 

It  dove-tailed  into  Raleigh's  mood  of  revulsion 
without  a  wrinkle. 

"Sure  I'll  go"  he  cried  with  alacrity.  "We'll  get 
blind  and  sing." 


90  Chanting  Wheels 

McAllister  seized  his  hat  and  strode  out.  "Come 
on — I  wanta  get  that  guy's  bunk  outta  my  system." 

Later  in  the  whirling  end  of  an  evening,  with  his 
hands  weaving  lilting  patterns  on  a  clanging  piano  in 
a  very  cheap  and  very  drunken  dance  hall  above 
somebody  or  other's  "restaurant,"  he  suddenly  re 
membered  McAllister's  remark,  and  his  face  as  he 
said  it — a  satyr  stirring  under  its  fine-tanned  skin 
and  gleaming  through  its  commonly  handsome  fea 
tures.  He  remembered,  because  McAllister  had  sud 
denly  become  conspicuous  through  his  absence,  hav 
ing  departed  unsteadily  but  unmistakably  with  a 
vivid-breasted  girl.  Raleigh's  hands  crashed 
abruptly  to  a  discord.  He  removed  the  white,  reek- 
ingly  perfumed  arm  from  his  neck,  and  rose  suddenly 
bitter,  his  head  rocketing  a  little  from  drink, 
McAllister's  reaction  and  its  possible  tragedy  before 
his  eyes. 

"Damn  all  Brahleys"  he  muttered.  He  stooped 
and  kissed  the  girl  beside  him  lightly  on  the  cheek. 
She  gurgled  at  him  boozily,  and  sought  to  twine  him 
with  her  arms. 

"Good  night,  my  dear,"  he  said  soberly,  unwind 
ing  her  carefully.  Then,  quickly,  "Did  anyone  ever 
tell  you  you'd  go  to  hell  if  you  weren't  so  good  it 
took  all  the  pleasure  out  of  life?" 

The  girl  drew  back,  her  eyes  suddenly  shrewd. 
Then  she  laughed.  Another  queer  one. 

"Say — I  was  drug  to  Sunday  School  by  an  aunt 
for  five  years.  They  always  handed  out  that  line — 
leastways,  at  mine  they  did.  I  beat  it."  She  leered 


Indigestible  Manna  91 

up  at  Raleigh.     "Never  thought  I'd  been  there,  did 
you,  ole'  thing?" 

Raleigh  slipped  out  of  her  arms.    "I  was  sure  of 
it"  he  returned  over  his  shoulders.     "Goodnight." 


Smetana  sat  in  his  small  bare  room,  his  relaxed 
hands  hanging  over  his  knees,  his  white  wedge  of 
a  face  waxy  in  the  moonlight  that  should  have 
softened  and  beautified  it.  But  instead  it  merely 
looked  more  tense.  His  mind  was  full  of  Raleigh. 
He  tingled  at  the  memory  of  his  kindly  voice  and 
the  friendly  thump  of  his  big  hand.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  anyone  had  spoken  to  him  in  kindness  or 
touched  him  in  sympathy  since  his  cousin's  death. 
He  smiled  softly  for  a  moment. 

Then  the  whirring  in  his  mind  again  asserted  it 
self.  It  had  -grown  slowly,  steadily;  it  was  as  if 
he  stood  on  a  lonely  long  road,  and  far  off,  where 
the  sides  of  it  met  at  the  horizon,  something  was 
spinning  toward  him.  He  could  hear  the  spinning 
very  plainly  now,  and  knew  that  it  was  his  mind.  It 
was  dry,  hard,  like  a  wheel  that  spins  in  a  dry  hear 
ing.  But  there  was  something  wrong  with  it — it 
could  not  find  its  center.  On  the  polished  sheen  of 
its  spinning  disk  rose  pictures,  drawn  out  sideways 
and  distorted — the  crushed  feet  of  his  cousin — the 
sister's  grief -sodden  face — but  they  always  vanished 
before  the  smiling  face  of  the  man  in  the  touring 
car.  The  smile  seemed  to  sing  too,  and  made  a  whir 
ling  sound  of  its  own,  faintly. 


92  Chanting  Wheels 

He  stirred  uneasily.  That  spinning  sound  never 
left  him  now.  It  was  a  lonely  sound,  like  the  wires 
of  telephones  along  an  empty  road  at  dusk.  "WHY 
—WHY— WHY— WHY,"  it  sang.  There  was 
something  of  compulsion  in  it  too.  It  was  as  if  the 
whirling  cry  was  drawing  closer  round  the  unknown 
center,  seeking  a  point  upon  which  to  converge  its 
snarling,  thin  hatred.  It  seemed  to  urge  him  to  find 
this  center,  as  if  that  focus  were  the  only  thing 
needed  to  draw  it  into  a  powerful  point,  to  fuse  that 
dry,  spinning  whine  into  shriek  of  action.  Slowly, 
imperceptibly,  the  whole  swift-circling  disk  was 
drawing  closer,  searching,  urging. 

Two  red  spots  crept  into  the  white  cheeks.  Be 
hind  his  eyes  the  thing  that  Raleigh  had  seen  there 
moved  like  a  caged  animal. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MANICURES  AND  MORALS 

"OUT  Eleanor"  protested  Mrs.  Grayson,  "don't 
*-*  you  think  it  is  a  little  unusual  to  ask  a  per 
fectly  strange  young  man  to  tea?" 

"It's  because  he  is  perfectly  strange  and  more  than 
a  little  unusual  that  I'm  asking  him,  Eva  dear"  re 
turned  Eleanor.  "He's  the  first  really  interesting 
person  I've  seen  since  I've  been  home.  Anyone  who 
can  read  Telleas'  on  a  trolley  that  smells  like  a  garlic 
sandwich  is  worth  knowing.  Either  he  has  the 
concentration  of  an  Edison  or  no  olfactory  organs. 
Either  is  a  diverting  possibility." 

Mrs.  Grayson  sighed,  and  shook  her  earrings.  She 
moved  across,  gliding  as  do  middle-aged  women 
who  somehow  convey  an  impression  of  floating  leg- 
lessness,  and  paused  at  the  door. 

"But  Eleanor — is  he  a  gentleman?"  It  was  her 
exit  line. 

"That,  Eva,  depends  on  what  you  judge  him  by. 
His  occupation,  according  to  Pat  Culhane  is"  she 
consulted  a  small  notebook  on  her  desk — "is  'press- 
hand  on  hotpress  No.  5,  in  shop  five." 

Mrs.  Grayson  made  a  sound  like  a  strangling 
duck,  but  Eleanor  proceeded  unpurturbed. 

93 


94  Chanting  Wheels 

"His  clothes — what  I  saw  of  them — came,  I 
should  say,  from  New  York  and  Paris,  and  had 
crossed  many  Rubicons.  His  vocabulary  is  a  little 
like  Huneker;  his — let  me  see,  what  else  does  one 
judge  a  gentleman  by — oh  yes,  his  hands.  Well, 
his  hands  looked  like  Peter's  do  after  he's  greased 
the  Packard's  transmission.  You  can  take  your 
choice." 

"He  sounds  like  a  crowd  to  me"  murmured  Mrs. 
Grayson,  amused  in  spite  of  herself.  "However,  as 
you've  asked  him,  there  seems  to  be  nothing  to  do. 
If  he  cuts  your  throat  and  makes  off  with  the  silver, 
don't  blame  me.  Are  you  going  to  the  Vermylias' 
theatre  party?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.  A  shaded  box  and  entr'  acte 
music  would  give  Vernon  another  chance  to  propose, 
and  I  don't  think  I  can  endure  that  again — at  least 
for  a  week.  And  now " 

She  saw  her  mother's  chins  set,  and  knew  what 
was  coming.  "I  don't  see  why  you " 

"And  now"  went  on  Eleanor  firmly,  "I  think  I'll 
wash  the  Sapinski  baby  from  my  hands,  and,"  she 
paused  a  moment  before  the  long  Louis  Quinze 
mirror  "go  down  to  Madame*  Lestrange's  for  the 
well-known  wave  of  permanence." 

Mrs.  Grayson's  chins  remained  set.  She  folded 
her  hands  before  her. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  will  spend  all  your  time  at 
the  Sapinski's." 

Eleanor's  lips  tightened  a  little.  "I  don't.  I'm  at 
the  Kalousdians  and  Borofskis  quite  as  much." 


Manicures  and  Morals          95 

Mrs.  Grayson  waved  a  plump  hand.  "I  mean 
with  all  these — people.  It's  all  very  fine,  and  you 
doubtless  do  an  immense  amount  of  good,  but  your 
friends  never  see  you  any  more.  I  saw  Helen 
Storey  at  Blumenthal's  yesterday  morning — you 
know — that  sale  of  lingerie  I  told  you  about,  and  she 
said  Bob  Trevor  told  her  you  weren't  at  Anne 
Wycherly's  The  Dansant  and  that — " 

Eleanor  went  swiftly  to  her  mother  and  put 
her  hands  on  that  lady's  plump  and  modish 
shoulders. 

"Eva  dear,  please — please!  Don't  you  understand 
yet?  These  people  bore  me  till  I  want  to  scream. 
I  know  it  sounds  frightfully  conceited  and  horrid, 
but  they  seem  just  like  a  row  of  dolls,  or  marionettes. 
It  was  all  right  before  France,  but — "  she  dropped 
her  hands  from  her  mother's  shoulders  with  a  rueful 
little  smile.  "Oh,  it's  no  use.  You  cannot  under 
stand,  of  course." 

Mrs.  Grayson  regarded  her  daughter  with  more 
keenness  than  her  sleek  air  of  slight  petulance 
revealed. 

"Just  what  was  there  about  France  that  has  made 
people  into  dolls  for  you  ?" 

Eleanor  looked  up  quickly  and  moved  restlessly 
about  her  room,  her  hands  clasped  behind  her,  a 
gesture  that  Mrs.  Grayson  knew  meant  with  her 
control : 

"Oh — I  don't  know — everything  was  so  real — it 
was  like  electric  wires  with  the  insulation  pulled  off 
— contacts — of  course  some  of  it  was  horrid,  but 


96  Chanting  Wheels 

everyone  was  so  alive,  and  the  work — you  didn't 
have  a  minute  to  think  about  yourself  and  con 
sequently  get  bored — it  was  just  the  France  of  1917, 
that's  all."  She  moved  toward  the  bathroom. 

Mrs.  Grayson  was  thinking  to  herself  that  no 
woman  was  ever  as  affected  by  an  abstraction  as  her 
daughter  appeared  to  be  by  the  France  of  1917.  To 
her  there  was  a  person  under  it.  Wisely  she  had 
never  voiced  this.  She  was  a  kind  woman  when 
she  did  not  try  to  be  clever. 

Eleanor  threw  her  a  smile.  "Don't  worry  about 
me,  Eva.  In  the  course  of  time  I'll  doubtless  become 
an  old  and  happy  maid.  Or  else  I'll  marry  someone 
like  Vernon  Vermylia,  with  a  beautiful  chin  and  no 
conversation,  or  a  scentel  serpent  like  Bob  Trevor. 
Bob's  idea  of  entertainment  is  to  balance  a  teacup 
on  one  knee,  and  talk  about  Life  with  an  extended 
little  ringer  in  a  pink  voice."  ("I'm  making  him 
sound  a  little  like  something  out  of  Alice  in  Wonder 
land,  I  must  say"  she  thought.)  She  entered  the 
bathroom  and  violently  opened  the  hot  water. 

Mrs.  Grayson  stared  after  her. 

"Just  why"  she  observed  "a  year's  ambulance 
driving  in  France  should  unfit  you  for  enjoying 
your  friends,  I  cannot  quite  discern." 

Eleanor's  voice  resounded  from  the  depths  of  the 
bathroom. 

"It  hasn't.  It's  unfitted  them  for  enjoying  me. 
It's  a  continual  masquerade  with  me.  If  I  didn't 
quiver  like  a  jellyfish  over  the  latest  baby  or  Isabelle 
Meighan's  divorce,  I'd  be  considered  'queer.'  If  I 


Manicures  and  Morals  97 

disturbed  Harry  Anderson's  monologue  about  golf 
with  a  question  on  books,  I  would  be  finished  so 
cially.  Fortunately  it's  fairly  easy  to  be  a  sausage 
grinder,  and  turn  out  linked  platitudes,  each  one  tied 
up  with  a  confiding  smile  and  bulging  with  candor." 

Miss  Grayson's  delightful,  melodious  voice  had 
edged  itself,  and  her  mother  raised  one  eyebrow. 
She  allowed  a  little  silence  to  be  filled  only  with  the 
sounds  of  Eleanor's  vigorous  ablutions,  then  said 
gently. 

"I'll  have  Mary  make  some  of  those  brownies 
you  like  so  much  for  tea,  dear."  She  went  out. 

Eleanor  smiled  to  herself,  and  wiped  her  fingers. 
What  a  trump  Eva  was,  in  most  ways.  Eleanor 
did  not  herself  understand  exactly  what  had  drawn 
her  out  of  her  warmed,  pleasant  life,  filled  with 
innumerable  small  things,  into  the  active  expression 
that  her  mother  so  failed  to  understand.  At  least — 
she  wasn't  sure  of  the  reason.  She  had  put  it 
resolutely  out  of  her  mind,  and  the  months  of  work 
had  served  to  largely  efface  it.  This  work  had 
grown.  Beginning  in  a  very  small  way  through  a 
dinner  at  David  Harde's  and  subsequent  talk  with 
Parker  of  the  Welfare  Department  through  coffee 
and  cigarettes,  the  channel  thus  opened  had  spread 
and  widened  before  the  stifled  energy  she  poured 
into  it.  At  first,  it  had  not  been  easy — this  work  of 
showing  tired  women  how  to  laugh  and  fretted 
children  how  to  play,  of  developing  latent  self- 
resource  for  amusement.  But  the  months  of  ex 
perience  abroad,  as  naked  of  conventionality  as  a 


98  Chanting  Wheels 

baby  of  clothes,  had  bequeathed  to  Eleanor  a  gift 
utterly  foreign  to  her — an  easy  contact  with  the 
Sapinski  baby  that  made  it  her  small  tyrant,  and 
its  mother  her  shy  worshipper.  Without  realiza 
tion,  the  work  had  all  grown  until  now  it  took  most 
of  her  day;  and  if  she  occasionally  felt  a  weariness 
creeping  up  her  back,  she  remembered  the  weariness 
it  had  banished  from  her  brain  and  was  glad. 

She  hurried  out  of  the  house,  climbed  into  her 
sedan,  and  moved  off  down  Devonshire  drive  to  the 
city.  In  a  snarl  of  traffic  she  encountered  a  truck. 
There  were  words.  The  driver,  a  young  rough  in 
a  greasy  army  coat,  glared  at  her.  Eleanor  re 
cognized  his  faded  shoulder-badge.  He  mumbled 
something  about  "damn  women  drivers." 

Eleanor  shot  back  at  him. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  about  women"  she  snapped. 
"I'll  wager  you're  one  of  the  silly  sheep  that  drove 
down  the  embankment  outside  Nancy  and  blocked 
reserve  artillery  for  hours."  She  grinned  at  his 
blank  look  of  chagrin,  and  whisked  off  ahead  of 
him  as  the  traffic  whistle  blew. 

She  drew  up  before  Madame  Lestrange's,  already 
basking  mentally  in  the  Lethean  relaxation  that 
lady's  rigid  fingers  always  imparted.  A  curtain 
divided  Madame's  temple  to  tonsorial  and  manual 
beauty  into  two  parts;  an  outer  court,  where  the 
masculine  might — and  did — come  to  acquire  the 
gleaming  terminals  of  the  perfect  manicure,  and  an 
inner  shrine  where  women  bared  their  scalps'  secrets 
to  professional  confessors  discreet  as  any  priest. 


Manicures  and  Morals          99 

Madame  Lestrange  bore  down  on  her  like  an 
ocean  liner — a  large,  firm  lady  with  brushed  up  eye 
brows  and  hair  of  perpetual  surprise,  and  shining 
black  orbs  a  trifle  bulgent.  She  was  incurably 
romantic,  as  are  so  many  large  ladies.  She  mourned 
a  husband  who  had  been  a  barber.  Madame  Le 
strange,  telling  you  of  him,  managed  to  convey  with 
the  greatest  delicacy,  and  between  sighs  of  affection 
for  the  defunct  Victor,  that  she  had  married  beneath 
her. 

"Ah,  ma  petite  mademoiselle  Gree-szong"  she 
cried,  and  floated  her  out  of  her  wraps  and  into 
her  own  chair  next  the  dividing  curtain  on  a  steady 
stream  of  light  French.  Eleanor  had  walked 
straight  into  her  heart  a  year  before,  with  her  fluent 
tongue,  and  her  easy  knowledge  of  Madame's 
Mecca,  Amiens.  She  had  the  true  provincial  scorn 
of  Paris.  Her  voice  continued  to  ripple  about  her, 
as  Eleanor's  hair  rippled  down  her  back.  Her 
monologue  always  diverted  Eleanor;  this  morning 
it  interested  her  particularly. 

"But  mademoiselle,  it  is  too  true !  These  women, 
they  come  here,  with  no  knowledge  of  that  which  is 
fitting,  and  they  say,  of  a  high  voice  'Gimme  the  best 
yu've  got !'  "  The  exactness  of  her  French  mimicry 
brought  a  giggle  from  Eleanor.  Madame's  eyes 
rolled  to  heaven.  "Mais  oui,  mademoiselle!  As  if 
always  they  had  had  the  bonne — and  one  might  see, 
at  a  glance  of  the  eye,  that  they  had  known  never 
the  ways  of  a  femme  du  monde.  But  think 
mademoiselle !  Only  yesterday  comes  a  large  woman 


ioo  Chanting  Wheels 

— I  was  a  reed  beside  her,  mademoiselle,  oh  very 
large,  and  of  the  hairs  blondine ;  it  was  in  the  morn 
ing,  even  as  now,  and  she  wore  long  earrings  of  the 
pearls  false,  and  platinum  chains  and  a  necklace  com 
pletely  of  large  blue  stones  like  eggs.  She  desired  the 
perfumes.  I  showed.  She  asked  'Is  this  best  ?'  and 
ask  the  price.  Then  did  she  put  her  nose  even  more 
up,  which  mademoiselle  knows,  was  difficult,  for  it 
was  long,  and  pointed  to  her  breast,  and  demand 
something  better,  which  is  to  say,  of  a  greater  price ! 
And  she  is  depart,  cette  petite  bonne  dame,  with  a 
bottle  of  a  L'Origan  de  Coty!"  Madame  sniffed, 
and  began  shampooing  Eleanor's  hair  vigorously 
in  the  initial  rite  of  the  permanent  wave. 

"But  who  are  these  women,  and  who  are  their 
husbands?"  asked  Eleanor  from  under  the  shadow 
of  her  hair. 

Madame  Lestrange  snorted,  and  her  eyebrows 
rushed  toward  her  hair  like  mice  to  cover. 

"Who  but  these  men  of  the  war-wage,  of  the 
factory,  mademoiselle?  Never  have  they  known 
such,  and  still  it  is  more  more  more.  And  the  poor 
girl  in  the  shop,  and  the  young  clerks  who  work 
in  offices — " 

She  broke  off  to  seize  a  bottle  of  hair  tonic  and 
began  deluging  Eleanor  with  it.  The  more  she 
talked  the  faster  went  her  hands,  until  Eleanor  was 
being  showered.  She  rattled  on. 

"But  fancy  mademoiselle — one  of  my  girls — you 
noticed,  Mees  Freegs,  of  the  golden  hair  outside,  in 
the  outer  room — a  sweet  cabbage,  mademoiselle. 


Manicures  and  Morals         101 

She  has  a  friend.  He  is  of  the  papers — les  journaux. 
He  writes  of  police  and  murders — most  charmingly. 
They  would  wed,  and  may  not,  because  of  his  small 
wage.  It  is  disgrace !" 

"Why  Madame,  you  talk  like  a  violent  re 
actionary"  cried  Eleanor,  amused  and  not  a  little 
interested.  "Why  do  these  women  irritate  you? 
Isn't  their  money  as  acceptable  as  anyone's?" 

Madame  gazed  at  her  reproachfully  in  the  mirror. 
"But  mademoiselle — of  course.  Yet"  she  hesitated 
"it  is  not  fitting,  that  these  women,  of  no  taste,  no 
— no  appreciation  of  the  fine  things,  should  thus  be 
able  to  have  them  simply  by  buying.  It  is  not  juste" 
An  old  old  ancestor,  who  had  bequeathed  Madame 
her  flat  little  ears  and  imperiously  poised  head — 
perhaps  the  Due  d' Amiens  had  been  a  heady  young 
man — spoke  arrogantly  in  Madame's  voice. 

Eleanor's  mind  had  veered  to  her  own  work. 
One  of  her  problems  had  been  to  try  to  transform 
the  flooding  tide  of  silk  shirts,  eighteen  dollar  shoes, 
expensive  and  ugly  ties,  and  jewelry  beyond  the 
macabre  dreams  of  bad  taste,  into  a  new  ice-box — a 
vacuum  cleaner — a  growing  balance  in  the  check 
book  and  to  prophecy,  without  offense,  the  inevitable 
morrow  of  lay-offs  and  falling  wages. 

Her  reflections  were  rudely  broken.  An  under 
current  of  voice  from  the  outer  room  which  had 
been  running  unobtrusively  in  the  back  of  her  mind, 
rose  suddenly  to  the  surface,  and  scattered  her 
thoughts  as  a  rising  trout  scatters  minnows. 

"Well,  of  all  the  cheek!     You  get  right  out  of 


102  Chanting  Wheels 

here,  this  minute!"  The  voice  resounded  brassily, 
and  its  clangs  transfixed  Madame  Lestrange's  active 
fingers. 

A  low-pitched  and  apologetic  masculine  made 
answer  they  could  not  catch. 

"Didn't  do  nuthin',  hey?  I'll  tell  the  world  you 
didn't  do  nuthin'  to  me,  you  old  daffy-dill.  You 
ain't  no  gentleman — you  ain't  no  gentleman.  Get 
out  of  here  right  now,  or  I'll  call  Madame  Lestrange 
and  have  you  throwed  out !"  The  voice  was  scintil- 
lant  with  outraged  virtue. 

Never  so  silently  leaped  the  panther  as  Madame 
Lestrange  and  Eleanor.  Amid  a  shower  of  hair 
tonic  they  sprang  to  the  curtain,  and  peeked. 

A  middle-aged  man,  very  red  of  face,  was  gather 
ing  up  coat,  hat,  and  gloves  in  one  stride  to  the  door. 
He  flung  a  bill  on  the  counter  as  he  passed.  It  was 
a  quick  clean  exit,  but  not  too  quick  for  Eleanor  to 
recognize  the  greyed  dark  hair,  the  full,  sleekly  hand 
some  face,  the  emotionless  grey  eyes.  Then  the  door 
slammed,  and  Corinne  Friggs,  she  of  the  police  re 
porter  friend,  turned  loftily  to  the  mirror,  her  bal 
loon-like  and  brilliantined  puffs  quivering  with  indig 
nation.  Marceline  Mulvaney,  her  compeer,  surveyed 
her  with  burning  curiosity. 

"What'd  he  do  to  yuh?"  she  asked  eagerly. 

Corinne  tossed  her  puffs. 

"The  ole  fool—"  The  other  girl  calmly  cut  her 
off  and  drew  nearer. 

"What  did  he  do  to  yuh?" 

Pinned  to  the  specific,  Corinne  showed  faint  signs 


Manicures  and  Morals         103 

of  embarrassment.  "Oh,"  she  said  grandly,  "he 
begun  squeezin'  my  hand.  I  didn't  pay  no  attention 
to  that — they  all  do.  Then  he  begun  squeezing  my 
knee  under  the  table,  the  ole  fool."  She  walked  off 
down  the  shop,  surrounded  by  an  aura  of  righteous 
ness  like  a  Fra  Angelico  saint. 

Eleanor  withdrew  an  amazed  face,  then  burst  into 
peals  of  mirth.  He — of  all  people  in  the  world! 
She  laughed  till  she  cried,  and  Madame  Lestrange 
had  to  caution  her  against  the  effect  of  salt  to  the 
permanent  wave. 

Corinne  Friggs  continued  to  gaze  loftily  from  the 
window.  What  had  given  greater  edge  to  her 
denunciatory  voice  and  heightened  color  to  her 
cheeks  was  that,  to  her  conventional  horror,  she  had 
rather  liked  the  squeezing. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

APPLIED  UPLIFT 

RALEIGH  leaped  into  his  clothes  that  afternoon 
with  such  agility  that  McGill,  who  had  secured 
an  adjacent  locker,  stared  at  him. 

"What's  the  big  rush?"  he  asked. 

Raleigh's  voice  came  muffled  from  the  depths  of 
the  locker  ".  .  .  tea,"  was  all  Fred  gathered. 
Then  a  flushed  face  appeared.  "You'd  better  hump 
yourself  if  you're  going  on  the  same  trolley  with 
me." 

Thus  adjured,  Fred  humped,  and  the  two  tall 
young  men  swung  out  together.  Raleigh  fished  for 
cigarettes,  gave  one  to  Fred,  and  they  were  off — a 
strangely  different  pair,  but  linked  with  the  kinship 
of  youth  and  abounding  vitality.  To  Raleigh, 
McGill  had  proved  himself  indeed  an  Everyman  in 
his  industrial  Pilgrim's  Progress.  He  suspected  it 
was  largely  Fred's  secret  words  that  had  secured 
him  the  foremanship  of  his  press  on  Robert's  defec 
tion.  In  this  he  was  wrong;  it  was  his  own  intelli 
gence,  and  the  swift  prominence  his  fight  with  Mul- 
gully  had  given  him.  Culhane  had  chuckled  over  it. 

104 


Applied  Uplift  105 

"May  be  a  fool,  but  he's  got  the  stuff,"  the  foreman 
had  thought,  and  had  told  David  Harde  as  much 
in  recounting  the  incident  to  him. 

To  McGill,  Raleigh  presented  an  enigma.  His 
unconcealed  liking  had  flattered  and  pleased  him. 
His  naivete  on  matters  mechanic  amused  him.  Most 
of  all,  his  startling  moods  of  frankness,  his  talk,  like 
someone  out  of  a  book,  puzzled  and  intrigued 
McGill's  less  complex  mind.  It  was  characteristic 
that  he  sought  no  explanations ;  that  he  swiftly  took 
Raleigh  to  his  heart  as  a  bewildering  but  very  real 
pal,  and  accorded  him  inarticulate  and  ceaseless 
devotion.  Whole  planets  separated  them  as  to  in 
tellectual  interests.  On  only  one  tangible  point  did 
they  touch — music.  Here  Raleigh  had  stirred  unex 
pected  and  vague  depths.  They  had  journeyed,  on 
a  night  early  in  their  friendship,  to  the  movies,  and, 
from  the  remoteness  of  the  "smoking  stalls," 
watched  silently  and  with  few  words.  Then  the 
orchestra  had  without  warning  emerged  from  some 
pilly-willy  syncopation  into  the  prelude  to  Tristan. 
Raleigh  had  settled  back  and  watched  his  friend 
curiously.  The  great  house,  under  the  spell,  had 
gradually  stilled.  At  first  Fred  seemed  undisturbed. 
Then  he  slowly  grew  very  quiet,  and  his  cigarette 
burnt  out.  The  music  lifted,  swelled,  and  leaped 
into  glorious  crescendo.  Fred  took  a  quick  breath, 
and  his  hand  shot  out  to  Raleigh's  arm  and  gripped 
it.  The  display  of  emotion  startled  him,  as  did 
Fred's  face  when  the  lights  flashed  up  and  showed 
it  with  tears  dropping  from  his  eyes.  Raleigh's  heart 


106  Chanting  Wheels 

leaped  at  the  unconscious  revelation.  McGill  gulped, 
and  blew  his  nose. 

"My  God,"  he  whispered. 

Thereafter  he  had  sat,  hours  on  end,  while 
Raleigh  improvised  in  the  twilight  of  that  intimate 
musical  borderland  nearest  the  musician's  heart — 
played  with  a  consciousness  of  the  big  lad's  stimula 
tion,  of  the  dumb  sympathy  to  which  he  was  giving 
vicarious  expression,  the  depths  of  Celtic  emo 
tionalism  so  carefully  concealed  beneath  McGill's 
bluff  and  casual  exterior.  This  unexpected  innate 
response  had  been  the  meat  and  drink  of  human 
sympathy  to  Raleigh  without  which  the  artist  starves. 
No  amount  of  intellectual  sophistication  or  drawing 
room  glibness  for  a  moment  supplies  it. 

They  boarded  the  trolley  and  struggled  to  seats 
at  the  end. 

"Say  Raleigh — I  gotta  new  guy  for  the  quartets." 

"Fine;  can  he  sing?" 

"You're  damn  tootin'.  Heard  him  out  in  the 
crane  yard  last  noon.  He's  got  a  voice  most  like  a 
girl — high  and  awful  sweet-soundin'." 

Raleigh  clutched  him.  "A  tenor"  he  cried,  with 
the  rapture  of  all  leaders  of  amateur  singing  where 
those  rarae  aves  are  concerned.  "Bring  him  tomor 
row  night  if  you  have  to  leash  him.  Don't  care  if 
he  knows  a  note — I  can  teach  him.  That  makes 
only  two  more  that  we've  got  to  find.  What's  his 
name  ?" 

"I  forget.  But  I  know  where  he  works.  Runs 
the  magnet  crane.  He  wants  to  come — says  he 


Applied  Uplift  107 

knows  you — lives  at  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  himself.  He 
says  'Ah,  the  Meester  Raleigh,'  he  says,  'he  has  the 
heart  of  kindness.'  He's  a  sad  lookin'  little  pup; 
cousin  of  that  guy  was  killed  when  you  first 
came." 

Raleigh's  countenance  softened.  "I  wonder  where 
I  saw  him?"  he  murmured.  It  spoke  for  the 
numbers  who  had  experienced  the  "heart  of 
kindness." 

"Oh"  he  turned  to  Freddy  with  sudden  animation. 
"Did  I  tell  you  that  Parker  fell  on  my  neck  about 
the  concert?  Says  he'd  love  to  have  us  put  on  a 
stunt,  and  gave  me  carte  blanche.  I  think  we  can  do 
something  really  interesting — all  the  bunch  is  crazy 
to  give  a  minstrel  show — and  I  can  work  in  some 
real  quartet  singing,  too." 

McGill  was  seized  with  thought.  "Say — I  most 
forgot.  Ma  wants  you  to  come  out  for  dinner 
Sunday.  Will  you?" 

"I'd  love  to.  I  was  so  sorry  that  I  couldn't 
come  before,  but  I'd  have  been  no  possible  use.  I 
was  in  a  mood.  It  was  that  poor  old  elephant  of  a 
Mulgully.  One  might  as  well  allow  oneself  to  be 
annoyed  by  a  warehouse.  But  I  was.  I'm  glad 
that's  over,  Fred.  I  wonder  when  people  will  stop 
considering  men  effeminate  if  they  use  pollysyllables 
and  display  a  germ  of  feeling?" 

This  Fred  wisely  chose  not  to  answer.  "Ma  says 
if  she  don't  see  you  soon  she  won't  believe  there  is 
any  you,  an'  Peggy  said  she  was  comin'  down  to  the 
shop  some  day  and  stand  outside  and  whistle  some 


io8  Chanting  Wheels 

highbrow  tune  like  'Humoresque'  till  everybody  gets 
out.  She  knows  that'll  fetch  you." 

"I'd  fly  at  her  with  rapture"  laughed  Raleigh. 
"She's  the  little  one,  isn't  she,  who  tied  the  wrong 
tooth  to  the  door  and  pulled  it  out?" 

"Naw — that's  Annie.  Peg's  nineteen  last  May. 
Say,  if  you  think  I  like  music,  you  oughtta  see  her. 
She  eats  it  up.  She's  a  funny  girl;  when  she  was 
little  she  used  to  go  out  in  the  back  yard  and  sit 
under  a  bush  talkin'  to  people  that  wasn't  there  at 
all.  She's  always  been — "  Fred  groped  for  a 
tenuous  distinction  "different,  somehow — maybe 
'cause  she  went  to  school  longer  than  us  boys.  You'll 
like  her." 

"I'm  sure  I  will"  returned  Raleigh  somewhat 
absently.  His  mind  was  picturing  Eleanor  Grayson 
behind  a  tea  table,  and  from  this  comforting  vision 
had  turned  to  the  selection  of  a  necktie  with  the 
greatest  care. 

"Listen,"  McGill  intervened  between  the  choice  of 
the  one  with  gold  butterflies  and  an  austere  silver 
and  black  stripe.  "Why  don't  you  and  me  go  to  a 
show  Saturday  night?  Then  you  can  come  home 
with  me  and  be  right  there  for  breakfast?" 

"Fine.  Love  to."  The  trolley  slowed  to  55th 
Street,  and  Raleigh  rose  hastily.  "Bye,  Fred"  he 
called,  and  catapulted  for  the  door,  leaving  a  swathe 
of  sudden  vacancy  and  a  ripple  of  profanity  in  the 
crowded  car. 

At  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  he  flung  off  his  clothes,  bathed, 
and  twenty  minutes  later  emerged,  a  changed  being, 


Applied  Uplift  109 

immaculate  and  shining,  with  the  comfortable  assur 
ance  of  good  clothes,  and  a  stick,  and  new  pair  of 
gloves  wrapping  him  round.  At  the  desk  the  clerk 
gave  him  his  mail — with  a  smile  of  sinister  meaning. 
He  saw  an  envelope  with  the  red  triangle  in  the 
corner,  and  with  a  sudden  loss  of  assurance,  glanced 
quickly  down  the  page. 

".  .  .  We  have  investigated  the  matter 
thoroughly  and  regret  that  we  see  no  other  course 
than  to  ask  you  to  leave  the  building.  This  is  un 
fortunate,  for  we  feel  that  what  you  are  doing  with 
the  singing  in  your  shop  is  worthy  work.  But  your 
conduct  and  speech  deeply  offended  our  Mr.  Brahley, 
and  we  fear  that  your  attitude  on  religious  matters 
is  such  as  to  be  gravely  detrimental  to  the  spirit 
which,  by  precept  and  example,  we  seek  to  foster. 

"We  shall  consider  your  room  as  available  a  week 
from  next  Saturday. 

"Most  sincerely 

"REGINALD  AUGUSTUS  STOKES, 
"General  Sec'y." 

Raleigh  started  for  a  moment  unbelieving,  then  a 
gust  of  rage  shook  him.  He  turned  on  the  clerk  at 
the  desk,  who  had  been  watching  him  furtively. 
The  clerk  looked  hastily  down. 

"Where's  Mr.  Stokes?"  demanded  Raleigh  hotly. 

"His  office  is  upstairs.  He  won't  return  till  5  :i5-" 

Raleigh  glanced  at  the  clock.  Four  twenty.  He 
bit  his  lip.  Then  suddenly  he  threw  back  his  head 


no  Chanting  Wheels 

and  laughed  so  loudly  that  the  clerk  at  the  desk 
looked  a  little  frightened.  He'd  have  something 
amusing  to  tell  Eleanor  Grayson,  anyhow. 

"Tell  him  Mr.  Raleigh  wants  to  see  him 
tomorrow." 

The  clerk  began  raising  little  barriers.  "You'll 
have  to  make  an  appointment  through  the  office" — 

But  Raleigh  had  turned  on  his  heel.  "Oh,  go  to 
the  devil"  he  grinned  cheerfully,  waved  his  stick  at 
the  horrified  clerk,  and  went  out  whistling. 


CHAPTER    IX 

MANICURIAL  CONSEQUENCES 

HE  was  greeted  by  a  tall  and  solemn  butler,  a 
darky  with  a  face  the  color  and  dignity  of 
Rameses  II,  so  kindly  preserved  to  us  in  the  Metro 
politan  Museum.  With  a  sudden  swift  rush  of 
pleasure  Raleigh  surrended  stick,  hat  and  gloves, 
his  ruffled  feathers  smoothing  more  and  more,  until, 
when  the  old  fellow  slipped  off  his  coat  and  adjusted 
his  collar  with  a  respectful  pat,  he  drew  a  deep 
breath  and  began  to  purr  with  delight.  Rameses 
departed,  on  his  inquiry  for  Miss  Grayson,  and  he 
looked  round.  There  was  no  need  to  analyze  the 
fine  old  pictures,  the  shaded  lamps,  the  peep  of  an 
Aubusson  carpet  glimpsed  through  an  open  door, 
the  rich  quiet  and  luxurious  warmth.  Raleigh 
bathed  in  it  like  a  Sybarite. 

Rameses,  a  tall  shadow,  strode  softly  back.  He 
grinned  suddenly,  and  his  face  split  into  a  million 
fine  lines  like  a  crackle-ware  plate. 

"Miss  Eleanuh's  waitin'  fo'  you,  suh." 
Raleigh  paused  at  the  door  for  an  instant.    Never 
was  a  deliberate  mis-en-scene  of  Eleanor's  making 

in 


Chanting  Wheels 

— and  they  were  many — more  instantly  appreciated. 
He  crossed  the  room  quickly  and  she  gave  him  a 
firm  small  hand,  then  swept  his  figure  appreciatively, 
and  laughed,  the  Chopin  waltz  of  a  laugh  that  he 
remembered. 

"I  knew  you'd  give  me  an  inkling  somehow,"  he 
cried  triumphantly  after  the  first  greetings. 

She  made  a  little  grimace.  "I  had  to.  You  were 
so  abominably  composed." 

"That  was  bluff.  I  nearly  fell  out  of  the  trolley 
after  you.  I'm  glad  the  bluff  worked.  How  in 
the  world — you  said  in  the  note  that  Culhane  told 
you  about  me." 

She  nodded,  laughing. 

"May  I  ask  where  you  encountered  my  Cuchulain 
of  a  boss?  Don't  tell  me  you  work  at  the  Hydraulic 
too?" 

"Well — I  do.  In  a  way,  that  is.  Lemon  or  cream, 
Mr.  Raleigh?"  She  was  pouring  tea  into  a  fragile 
cup  of  green  lustre. 

Raleigh  leaned  back,  half  closing  his  eyes,  and 
looked.  Behind  her  the  top  of  a  Victorian  tip-table 
drew  a  circling  pattern  of  old  gold  and  roses,  of 
which  her  small  head  with  its  gold-shot  brown 
hair  formed  the  centre.  Firelight  and  candles 
glowed  gently. 

"Beautiful  words!"  he  sighed.  "It's  been  at  least 
two  months  since  I've  heard  them.  Lemon,  please, 
and  mountains  of  sugar.  'Cream  or  lemon,  Mr. 
Raleigh?'  "  He  repeated  it  like  a  refrain. 

Eleanor   smiled    with    a    certain    softness — the 


Manicurial  Consequences      113 

ineradicable  mother-complex.     "You  know  no  one 
here." 

He  leaned  forward,  and  nodded  vigorously. 

"Yes.  Lots.  But  I've  spent  my  off  hours  trying 
to  avoid  them.  I  can  imagine  Reg  Tyson's  horror 
if  he  caught  me  going  to  work.  He'd  fly  screaming 
to  the  nearest  Club,  and  presently  it  would  be  all 
over  that  Raleigh  was  doing  something  queer  again, 
and  I'd  be  dragged  to  dinners  and  to  see  babies  and 
exhibited  as  a  freak."  His  voice  dropped  to  a  more 
serious  key.  "They're  fine  chaps — most  of  them. 
We  seemed  to  have  had  a  financially  minded  class 
in  college.  They've  all  gone  into  the  bond  business 
or  banking — at  least  all  of  'em  out  here.  They'd 
never  for  a  minute  understand  what  I  was  doing." 

Eleanor  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  indicated  the 
cake     tray.       Raleigh     seized     it     with     delight. 
"Brownies!"  he  exclaimed.     "Who  told  you  that  I 
liked  them  better  than  anything  in  the  world?" 

"Not  Pat  Culhane,  certainly." 

Raleigh  roared  suddenly,  and  demolished  a 
brownie.  "I'll  bet  not!  What  did  he  tell  you?  I 
fancy  he  thinks  me  quite  mad." 

"Yes,  I  think  he  does,  in  a  harmless  and  interest 
ing  sort  of  way.  You  see,  it  came  about  this  way. 
I'm  doing  some  work  through  Mr.  Parker  of  the 
Welfare  Dept,  and  asked  Pat  if  his  wife  wouldn't 
help  with  the  girls'  sewing  class.  Then  he  asked  me 
if  I  wanted  any  singing  taught.  'Oh,'  he  said,  'one  of 
my  new  press  hands  has  a  bunch  of  quartets,  they're 
tellin'  me.  Purty  soon  I  spect  we  won't  be  able  to 


ii4  Chanting  Wheels 

hear  the  noon  whistle  fur  the  warblin,'  and  we'll 
have  the  tractors,  scatterin'  canary  seed  'stead  of 
billets.'  " 

Raleigh  joined  her  laugh.  "You  don't  think  he 
minds?"  he  queried  a  little  anxiously. 

"Mercy  no — he's  vastly  diverted.  Naturally  he 
doesn't  understand." 

"I'll  get  him  down  to  a  rehearsal  some  night" 
said  Raleigh.  She  was  looking  at  him  curiously. 
He  caught  it. 

"You  mean  you  don't  understand  either?" 

"Perhaps.  I'm  awfully  interested.  It's  wonder 
fully  clever  of  you  to  go  right  in  and  work  with  the 
men.  No  amount  of  settlement  work  will  give  you 
the  same  contact." 

It  was  Raleigh's  turn  to  stare.  Then  he  laughed. 
"But  my  dear  Miss  Grayson,  I'm  not  being  all  noble, 
and  playing  the  industrial  Cinderella.  Not  for  one 
minute.  I'm  making  my  living." 

She  stared,  too,  at  that,  then  laughed  lightly.  It 
was  for  an  instant  embarrassing.  "But  your 
music" — she  protested. 

He  nodded,  and  ostentatiously  waved  his  right 
hand  to  conceal  the  fact  that  his  left  was  sneaking 
its  fifth  brownie.  "Yes,  of  course.  You  see,  I 
found  that  I  wasn't  breaking  even  down  in  New 
York,  in  spite  of  occasional  publicity  jobs  and 
orchestrating  things  and  such.  And  my  digestion 
was  being  ruined  by  studio  teas,  and  my  point  of 
view  clogged  by  studio  atmosphere.  It's  a  danger 
ously  subtle  thing.  People  come  in.  They  talk  and 


Manicurial  Consequences      115 

talk  and  talk — mostly  about  Life  and  Art  and  Love, 
free  and  otherwise,  and  one  feels  very  grand  and 
lofty.  You  remember  the  song  of  the  Banderlog. 
'Now  we're  going  to — never  mind!  Brother,  thy 
tail  hangs  down  behind.' ' 

She  knew  her  Kipling  and  her  eyes  twinkled. 

"Well,  it  was  just  like  that  exactly.  'Now  we're 
going  to' — and  never  did — not  even  to  having  the 
piano  tuned  or  ordering  more  wood  in  time  to  keep 
us  from  freezing.  All  talk  and  no  work.  And  it 
was  rather  Art — y,  too.  I  felt  that  if  I  saw  one 
more  batik  smock  I'd  have  to  don  a  flannel  shirt 
and  lumberman's  boots  and  take  to  chewing  tobacco. 
I  began  to  fear  I'd  sprout  pre-Raphaelite  blossoms — 
tube-roses  —  if  I  didn't  do  something.  So  I  —  I 
simply  came  out  here — " 

"To  your  Uncle  David"  she  finished  triumphantly. 

"I  hope  you  haven't  told  anyone  that"  he  said 
gravely. 

"Not  a  soul.  I  wormed  it  out  of  David  the  other 
night,  and  once  I  had,  he  told  me  reams;  he's  in 
ordinately  proud  of  the  way  you're  doing." 

Raleigh  gasped.  "He  is?  •  It's  the  first  time  on 
record  he's  had  the  remotest  use  for  me,  then." 

"He's  never  understood  you.  He  confessed  to  me 
that  he  thought  he  had  misjudged  you  utterly.  If 
you  know  David,  you'd  know  how  much  that  admis 
sion  meant." 

Raleigh  laughed. 

"It  seems  funny  to  hear  you  telling  me  'if  I  knew* 
my  own  uncle.  But  it's  perfectly  true.  I've  only  seen 


n6  Chanting  Wheels 

him  five  times  in  my  life,  and  always  wanted  to  love 
him  and  never  could.  I  think  now  I  might." 

Eleanor  was  very  earnest.  "He's  one  of  the 
finest  people  I  know.  He  worked  so  hard  he  peril 
ously  near  forgot  how  to  play."  A  tendril  of  a  smile 
played  around  her  mouth  for  a  moment.  "Since  my 
debut  I've  been  teaching  him  to  a  little."  She  thrust 
the  cake  tray  at  him  persuasively.  "Now  do  tell  me 
about  the  singing  classes.  I'm  terribly  interested." 

"Oh — it's  really  nothing.  I  ran  onto  a  boy  my 
first  day  with  a  fine  voice — chap  named  McGill " 

He  stopped,  for  she  had  suddenly  leaned  forward. 

"McGill — what  does  he  look  like?"  Then,  as  if 
to  relieve  the  abruptness  of  it — "I  met  a  man  of  that 
name  in  France.  I  took  care  of  him  in  the  hospital 
for  a  while.  How  curious  if  it  should  be  the  same 
one!  What  does  he  look  like?" 

"Big  chap — heavily  built — very  alive  blue  eyes — 
very  straight  eyebrows — plume  of  dark,  mousy-col 
ored  hair." 

She  shook  her  head,  with  disappointment,  he 
thought. 

"It's  not  the  same.  It  was  a  little  absurd  to 

think the  name's  common  enough."  She 

seemed  to  Raleigh's  quick  intuitive  sense  a  little  ir 
ritated  with  herself.  "Go  on,  please.  I  chatter  like 
a  magpie  on  a  pole." 

"Well,  McGill  and  I  were  talking  about  singing, 
and  two  lads  at  the  table — it  was  at  lunch — joined 
in,  and  presently  we  had  a  quartet  that  got  together 
at  noon,  and  sang.  The  men  used  to  come  round 


Manicurial  Consequences      117 

and  listen,  and  liked  it.  Particularly  the  foreigners, 
of  course.  One  day  some  of  them  started  up  an  old 
Slovanian  folk  song.  You  can't  imagine;  those 
dirty,  dingy  looking  men,  finishing  garlic  sandwiches, 
with  a  mise-en-scene  of  punch  presses  and  cinders 
and  grease,  and  singing  this  beautiful  old  thing. 
We'd  just  finished  'I'm  Sorry  Dear'  in  a  way  to  draw 
tears  from  a  shear-blade.  Then  this.  It  was  like 
finding  a  Leonardo  da  Vinci  in  a  comic  supplement. 
I  nearly  fell  on  their  dirty  necks,  bless  'em." 

She  was  watching  his  lighted  face  with  curious, 
appreciative  eyes. 

"So  you  scented  competition  and  absorbed  them" 
she  interjected.  "And  I  suppose  it  grew  from  that." 

"Exactly.  I'm  having  a  real  course  in  folk  music 
— some  of  the  things  they  bring  use  old  modes  that 
I  know  of  but  never  hear  in  use." 

Her  brow  wrinkled.    "Modes?" 

"Ancient  themes  built  on  scales  of  music  much 
older  than  ours.  They  are  older  than  the  pyramids. 
They  were  connected  with  incantation  and  astrology, 
with  an  old  and  vanished  civilization  that  we  can 
only  guess  at.  They  have  tremendous  power  when 
properly  used."  He  hesitated:  she'd  think  he  was 
queer  if  he  kept  on 

"And  of  course  the  men  love  it." 

He  returned  to  the  men  with  slight  disappoint 
ment.  "Oh  yes."  Modes  evidently  interested  Miss 
Gray  son  only  insofar  as  they  graced  her  trim  body. 
"They  come  to  the  Y.M.C.A.  and  we  rehearse  in 
the " 


Chanting  Wheels 

She  caught  the  dismay  flooding  his  face. 

"Why  what's  the  matter?" 

He  smiled  ruefully,  "I  guess  that's  all  over  now," 
he  said  slowly.  He  thought  for  a  moment — she 
waited.  Then  he  looked  at  her  gravely. 

"You  see,  I've  been  living  at  the  Y.  and  using  the 
auditorium  for  rehearsals.  Today  comes  this."  He 
reached  in  his  pocket  and  handed  her  the  letter  from 
Stokes. 

She  raised  perplexed  eyes.     "What " 

Raleigh  dramatized  the  Bible  class  in  a  few  sen 
tences.  She  nodded,  anger  darkening  her  eyes  for 
a  moment.  "Not  typical,  but  not  too  rare,  I  fear," 
she  murmured,  bending  again  to  the  letter. 

At  the  end,  Raleigh  saw  her  pale,  and  she  gasped, 
the  without  warning  doubled  over  the  letter  with 
peals  of  laughter.  Raleigh  joined.  She  shook  her 
head  at  him,  through  tears  of  mirth. 

"But  you  don't  know — you  don't  know  the  half 
of  it."  She  read  aloud  in  a  laughter-broken  voice, 
"  '.  .  .  .  detrimental  to  the  spirit  which  by  pre 
cept  and  example  we  seek  to  foster.' '  She  exploded 
again,  then  looked  at  him,  weak  and  red-eyed.  "Do 
excuse  me,  but — but  this  is  rarer  than  much  fine  gold, 
yea  sweeter  too  than  the  honey  in  the  honey  comb." 
She  stopped  a  moment,  thinking.  Then  her  eyes 
danced,  and  she  stood  up. 

"Are  you  game  for  something?" 

"Of  course."    Utterly  puzzled,  he  nodded. 

"All  right.    Do  you  know  Stokes?" 

"Never  saw  him." 


Manicurial  Consequences       119 

"I  do.    I'm  asking  him  here  to  tea." 
Raleigh  protested.     "Really,  you  mustn't- 


She  had  vanished  from  the  room.  In  a  moment 
she  returned,  her  eyes  shining  with  unholy  delight. 

"He's  coming"  she  announced. 

Raleigh  was  genuinely  annoyed.  "Really,  Miss 
Grayson,  I  suppose  this  is  very  good  of  you, 
but— 

"It  is.  Very.  Moreover,  it  is  going  to  be  the 
most  saccharine  revenge  ever  granted.  I  had  some 
contact  with  Reginald  Stokes  in  the  war.  Now 
please  don't  ask  questions.  Just  act  as  if  you  had 
never  gotten  that  letter.  Come  and  play  to  me.  Did 
you  bring  the  score  of  Pelleasf" 

He  fell  into  her  mood,  and  asked  no  more 
questions. 

"No,  but  I  know  most  of  it."  They  sauntered  to 
the  piano,  and  while  Raleigh  smoked  "after-tea  ciga 
rettes"  as  he  called  them,  talked  of  opera  and  singers 
and  Beyreuth  that  she  had  seen  and  he  hadn't,  and  of 
Ravel,  whom  he  knew  well.  They  flew  from  place 
to  person,  and  Raleigh  emptied  himself  of  his  de 
sire  to  talk  about  the  things  he  loved.  The  fire 
dropped  together,  and  the  gloom  outside  turned  from 
dark  grey  to  black.  Finally  he  sat  at  the  piano. 

She  settled  into  a  chair  where  she  could  watch, 
and  Raleigh  struck  the  first  six  notes  that  are  the 
flute-call  of  the  Faune,  and  lead  like  irregular  silver 
stepping  stones,  into  the  luminous  shadows  and 
haunted  glades  of  Debussy's  exquisite  prelude.  As 
usual,  all  else  fell  from  him  like  garments,  and  he 


120  Chanting  Wheels 

floated  out  into  the  transparent  iridescence  of  the 
music. 

When  he  finished — "That's  so  lovely"  came  ap 
preciatively  from  Eleanor,  but  he  instantly  sensed 
a  lack  of  fundamental  "feeling-with,"  and  swift  dis 
appointment  fell  like  a  light  shadow  over  the  mood 
of  the  music.  But  Eleanor  was  going  on,  her  light, 
beautifully  modulated  voice  softened. 

"Don't  you  always  think  of  fairy  horns  muted  for 
the  death  of  the  court  jester,  in  those  five  last 
chords?" 

Raleigh  nodded.  That  was  exquisite — perfect  in 
tellectual  appreciation.  Yet — it  was  the  mind  that 
spoke,  not  the  deeper  thing,  which  rarely  spoke  at  all, 
never  in  the  clever  costuming  of  phrase  that  she  gave. 

He  felt  cheated.  He  was  a  supersensitive  fool 
about  that  sort  of  thing,  he  decided  an  instant  later. 
It  was  just  that  he  so  wanted  her  to  understand  .  .  . 
"Yes,  it's  a  lovely  thing — and  that's  a  fine  descrip 
tion,"  he  found  himself  saying. 

She  asked  him  to  play  the  "Gardens  Under  the 
Rain,"  and  through  the  music  that  followed,  music 
that  brought  the  splash  and  tinkle  of  rain — a  rather 
exotic  summer  rain  slanted  like  a  brocade  of  pearl 
and  moonstone  over  bending  blue  bells  and  myriad- 
hued  flowers,  music  that  trilled  with  the  last  few 
drops  falling  steadily  from  shining  leaves  after  the 
sun  had  burst  apart  the  clouds,  she  sat  watching  him 
with  keen,  interested  eyes.  Almost  at  the  end,  came 
the  sound  of  a  distant  bell  in  the  house;  a  door 
opened  and  closed. 


Manicural  Consequences       121 

Then  an  assured,  full  voice  ploughed  determinedly 
through  the  delicate  final  fabric  of  the  music,  like  a 
bull  through  a  cobweb,  with  "Ah,  Miss  Grayson,  this 
is  indeed  a  pleasure." 

Raleigh  jumped,  and  swung  from  the  piano. 
Eleanor  went  swiftly  forward.  She  introduced 
them.  Evidently  the  name  meant  nothing  to  Stokes 
at  the  moment,  and  candle-light  throws  a  strange 
glamour  over  even  intimately  familiar  faces.  Stokes 
beamed  on  him. 

"Don't  let  me  interrupt  your  music,  Mr.  Raleigh. 
What  a  talent  it  is,  to  be  sure.  I  suppose  that  it  is 
a  hobby  with  you." 

Raleigh  lit  a  cigarette  and  answered  very  quietly. 
"Yes,  a  hobby." 

"Ah  yes.  Everyone  should  have  a  hobby,  quite 
right,  quite  right.  Very  interesting,  I'm  sure." 

Eleanor  had  again  become  the  center  decoration 
of  the  tip-table.  She  smiled  sweetly  at  Stokes,  who 
pulled  a  chair  close  beside  her,  talking  pompously 
with  a  fatuous  undercurrent  of  flattery.  Raleigh 
studied  him.  He  was  very  smooth.  His  greyed, 
dark  hair  lay  sleek  from  his  forehead,  his  clothes 
fitted  him  sleekly;  his  face  held  the  smooth  lineless- 
ness  of  the  man  of  forty  who  has  been  concerned 
with  small  things.  Raleigh  reluctantly  admitted  it 
was  a  handsome  face.  The  grey  eyes  were  clear 
enough.  Yet  he  felt  a  soft-padded  feline  quality, 
without  enough  force  to  make  that  quality  either 
dangerous  or  interesting. 

Eleanor  was  speaking. 


122  Chanting  Wheels 

"I've  seen  nothing  of  you  since  the  days  of  the 
War  Camp  Community.  How  you  helped  us,  when 
we  all  fell  into  work  like  kittens  into  a  tub,  and 
floundered,  and  scratched  each  other  a  little." 

He  held  up  a  deprecating  hand.  "I  merely  did 
what  I  could." 

She  offered  the  cake  tray.  "I  don't  think  I've 
really  seen  you  at  all,"  she  murmured  in  a  tone  subtly 
regretful,  "until  this  morning,"  she  added  slowly. 

Something  in  the  tone  caused  Raleigh  to  look  up 
suddenly  at  her.  Mr.  Stokes'  bland  smile  dissolved 
under  some  mental  chemistry  of  his  own,  an'd 
he  flushed  very  quickly.  "This  morning?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes — I  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  you  down  town." 

"Oh"  the  relief  was  too  evident.  Raleigh  began 
to  burn  with  curiosity. 

"Strange  you  haven't  met  Mr.  Raleigh  before," 
went  on  Eleanor.  "But  I  suppose  there  are  so  many 
young  men  living  there  that  you  never  see  half  of 
them." 

Stokes  put  down  his  cup  and  stared  at  Raleigh. 

"Are  you  living  at  the  Y?" 

Eleanor  cut  in.  "Yes  indeed,  and  he's  doing  some 
interesting  work  there.  Surely  you  must  have  heard 
of  his  chorus  of  men  from  the  Hydraulic?" 

Stokes  went  scarlet,  and  spluttered  in  his 
moustache. 

"Oh — er — a — yes,  of  course.  I  didn't  place  you 
as  the  Mr.  Raleigh  who, — er  a,  yes  to  be  sure"  he 
stopped,  and  they  saw  him  all  but  ask  whether 


Manicural  Consequences       123 

Raleigh  had  gotten  the  letter  dismissing  him  from 
the  building.  Eleanor  turned  to  Raleigh  gravely. 

"Are  you  taking  any  part  in  the  religious  activities 
of  the  Y,  Mr.  Raleigh?"  she  asked.  Raleigh  for  a 
moment  was  deceived  by  her  gravity.  Then  he 
caught  her  eye.  He  spoke  as  if  they  were  alone. 

"I  fear  my  taste  in  religion  is  too  naive  or  too 
sophisticated ;  I  am  not  sure  which.  Direct  spiritual 
expression  through  nature  makes  one  a  pagan  and 
intellectual  criticism  an  atheist,  I  find.  One  is  forced 
into  the  middle  ground  of  taking  one's  spiritual  in 
formation  second  hand,  like  a  book  so  scribbled  with 
some  one's  annotations  that  the  original  text  is  hid." 
He  smiled  at  Mr.  Stokes,  who  struggled  for  restraint. 
Eleanor  was  gazing  into  the  fire  with  her  chin  in 
her  hands,  and  spoke  softly,  but  with  a  distinctness 
that  drew  both  men's  attention  at  once. 

"Yes" — she  murmured,  "that  is  quite  so.  Yet 
Madame  Lestrange  doesn't  mind  the  annotations. 
She  finds  them  helpful." 

Raleigh  followed  up  promptly.  At  mention  of  the 
name  Stokes  had  jerked  round,  and  was  staring  at 
her. 

"Who  is  Madame  Lestrange  ?"  asked  Raleigh. 

"The  woman  who  does  my  hair — a  devout  Catho 
lic."  Suddenly  she  turned  to  the  men,  as  if  rousing 
from  a  deep  revery. 

"Oh — I  must  tell  you  the  funniest  thing  that  hap 
pened  there  this  morning.  I  was  having  a  shampoo, 
in  the  inner  room.  The  outer  one  is  a  manicure 
parlor,  I  might  say.  All  of  a  sudden  a  loud  voice 


124  Chanting  Wheels 

of  feminine  indignation  began  shouting  'You  get 
right  out  of  here — you  ain't  no  gentleman !'  Natur 
ally  I  made  one  leap  to  the  curtain  and  looked. 
There  was  Corrinne  Friggs,  one  of  the  manicure 
girls,  standing  with  the  expression  of  a  debauched 
baby,  and  the  man  she'd  been  manicuring  was  flying 
out  of  the  door  like  one  pursued."  She  laughed 
silverly.  Raleigh,  gazing  at  Stokes,  saw  a  great 
light.  He  roared. 

"I  suppose  he  was  some  fresh  young  male  flapper 
who'd  been  toying  with  the  golden  locks?" 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  He  was  quite  middle-aged,  and 
looked  painfully  respectable.  Then  Corinne  told  her 
friend  in  a  voice  that  would  fill  the  Hippodrome 
that  he  had  been  squeezing  her  knee  under  the  table." 

"A  quaint  fancy"  laughed  Raleigh.  "But  then, 
what  you  might  expect  from  middle-age  respecta 
bility.  It's  an  age  that  lacks  inventiveness,  I  find. 
I  think  Mr.  Stokes  wants  some  tea,  Miss  Grayson." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry — I  was  interested  in  my  story. 
Can't  I  give  you  some?" 

That  gentleman's  countenance  was  mottled  like  an 
Easter  egg.  He  sat  as  if  turned  to  stone  for  a  mo 
ment,  then  projected  himself  from  his  chair  in  a 
manner  strangely  suggestive  of  lifting  by  bootstraps. 

"No — sorry — didn't  know — didn't  really  know  it 
was  so  late — I'm  afraid  that  I  must  go,  at  once." 
His  hands  ran  up  and  down  the  buttons  of  his  coat 
like  a  clarinetist  playing  scales. 

Eleanor  rose.  "Must  you?  I'm  sorry.  I 
wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  some  settlement  work, 


Manicural  Consequences       125 

but  another  time — if  you're  in  a  hurry  now.  You 
must  hear  one  of  Mr.  Raleigh's  rehearsals.  You 
have  them  three  times  a  week,  don't  you?" 

"Yes."  Raleigh  hardly  dared  to  speak.  He  ex 
tended  a  hand  to  Mr.  Stokes,  who  clung  to  it  with 
a  dank  finger  for  a  moment.  "You  must  come 
down  when  we  get  a  little  further  on  with  the  work. 
It  ought  to  be  interesting  in  another  week — if  noth 
ing  interferes  with  the  rehearsals." 

"I'm  sure  nothing  will"  said  Eleanor.  "She  gave 
the  perspiring  Stokes  her  hand.  "Good-bye — I'm  so 
glad  to  have  seen  you — again." 

With  a  bow  and  a  few  mumbled  words,  he  fled, 
the  assurance  that  had  floated  him  into  the  room 
like  an  august  balloon  trailing  round  him  like  punc 
tured  shreds. 

They  waited  without  moving  till  the  outside  door 
had  banged.  Then  they  looked  at  each  other.  With 
a  whoop  Raleigh  vaulted  an  ottoman  and  seized  both 
Eleanor's  hands. 

"You  marvellous  person !"    he  cried. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  FORBIDDEN    MODE 

RALEIGH  bent  above  his  desk,  a  bathrobe  flung 
hastily  round  him  and  a  small  stream  of  water 
trickling  from  one  elbow.  He  had  been  seized  with 
a  theme  in  the  showers,  and  had  fled  dripping  to 
jot  it  down.  It  had  come  suddenly  and  completely, 
and  he  recognized  it  at  once  as  the  "shop"  theme 
for  which  he  had  been  hunting.  In  it  the  rhythm 
of  the  three  big  presses  beat  like  soft  gigantic  ham 
mers.  He  scribbled  busily,  then  hummed  what  he 
had  written.  Then  his  brow  wrinkled  with  surprise, 
and  he  began  rummaging  through  manuscripts. 

He  drew  forth  a  big  envelope  with  an  Indian 
stamp  on  it,  and  pulled  out  two  single  sheets  of 
manuscript  paper.  One  of  them  he  compared  to  the 
theme  he  had  written,  and  he  whistled. 

"Funny"  he  muttered  to  himself ;  "It's  almost  the 
same.  I  must  have  struck  pretty  close."  He  looked 
again  at  the  paper  he  had  drawn  from  the  envelope. 
At  the  top  of  it  was  written  in  fine  small  letters : 
"Hymn  to  Apollo — Hyperdorian  Mode — about  450 
B.C."  Underneath,  in  smaller  letters  still  "The  esot 
eric  connotation  is  that  of  loyalty." 

126 


The  Forbidden  Mode          127 

He  picked  up  the  other  sheet,  and  looked  at  it 
curiously,  with  an  expression  very  akin  to  dread. 
The  top  of  it  was  covered  with  the  same  fine  writing. 
He  read  it  with  the  unbroken  fascination  it  always 
held  for  him "It  is  one  of  the  old 
est  expressions  of  evocative  music  and  very  rare, 
because  it  was,  and  in  all  esoteric  cults  is  still,  strictly 
forbidden.  This  led  to  its  banishment  from  written 
music;  it  still  obtained,  however,  as  part  of  the 
Wisdom  Music  handed  down  verbally  from  priest 
to  priest.  Hints  of  it  are  found  in  Phoenician, 
Egyptian  and  Maian  chants,  pointing  to  a  common 
source — perhaps  in  Atlantis.  This  specimen  is  from 
Thibet,  and,  I  am  told,  is  used  by  the  outcast  cult 
there  with  terrifying  results.  Do  not,  I  beg  of  you, 
employ  it  lightly,  for  such  things  are  not  for  the  ears 
of  the  layman,  and  to  a  sensitive  mind,  under  the 
right  conditions  (of  which  only  vague  legends  re 
main)  it  might  produce  death.  I  can  only  guess  at 
the  forces  it  liberated,  when  used  properly,  but  I 
know  they  were  gigantic.  So  be  careful  how  you 
give  it  sound." 

Raleigh  looked  at  the  music  and  heard  it  mentally. 
It  had  an  iterative  rhythm,  that  made  him  think 
of  the  spiral  coiling  of  a  cobra. 

There  came  a  gentle  knock  at  his  door,  but  he 
was  too  absorbed  to  notice  it,  or  to  see  that  the 
door  opened  timidly,  and  a  figure  stood  in  the  room. 
He  was  going  through  the  forbidden  mode  again. 
The  temptation  to  hear  it  actually,  in  physical  sound, 
was  too  great,  and,  with  a  laugh  at  himself  for  his 


128  Chanting  Wheels 

own  superstition,  but  with  none  the  less  a  cold  ting 
ling  of  the  spine,  he  began  to  sing  it.  Doubtless  his 
mind  was  stirred  to  expect  anything,  but  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  air  grew  suddenly  colder,  and  that  with 
the  coiling  rhythm  of  the  chant,  boomed  out  in  his 
big  voice,  came  a  spiral  twisting  of  invisible  forces 
in  the  air  about  him.  .  .  .  He  was  certainly  cold. 
He  finished  it  defiantly,  loudly,  then  his  eyes  lifted 
from  the  manuscript,  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 
Smetana  was  standing  in  the  door,  looking  at  him  in 
amazement,  and  with  a  strange  smile. 

"Great  Scott!"  cried  Raleigh.  Then  he  laughed, 
and  dropped  back  into  his  chair.  "You  startled  me" 
he  confessed.  "Didn't  hear  you  come  in  at  all." 
He  remembered  him  by  that  time  as  the  boy  he  had 
befriended  in  the  gym.  "Sit  down — there  on  the 
bed."  Smetana  was  poised  as  if  for  instant,  scared 
flight,  his  eyes  growing  larger  and  larger  as  he 
looked  at  Raleigh.  He  seemed  to  expect  the  big 
bare  figure  to  turn  to  rend  him.  He  sat  down  timidly 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  bed. 

Raleigh  put  back  the  manuscripts  in  the  envelope, 
and  threw  a  curious  glance  at  Smetana.  Apparently 
the  singing  had  had  no  effect  on  him — Raleigh 
laughed  heartily  at  himself,  a  little  shame-faced  over 
his  mood  of  credulousness.  And  yet 

He  turned  to  Smetana,  rubbing  his  head  violently 
with  a  towel,  and  talking  jerkily  through  it.  "How 
have  you  been?  I  don't  think  I've  seen  you  since 
that  day  in  the  gym.  Everything  going  all 
right?" 


The  Forbidden  Mode          129 

Smetana  smiled  a  little.  "Yes,  pretty  good.  I 
got  better  job  now.  I  run  de  magnet  crane — you 
know — "  he  gestured  in  a  way  that  two  months  be 
fore  Raleigh  would  have  interpreted  as  the  playing 
of  an  invisible  harp,  but  which  he  knew  perfectly  as 
the  swing  of  the  big  crane  with  its  pendant  magnets. 
This  crane  had  always  fascinated  him ;  from  a  huge 
horizontal  arm  hung  three  masses  of  iron  like  flat 
tened,  gigantic  beehives,  side  by  side,  as  ornaments 
might  hang  from  a  lady's  bar  pin.  In  action  the 
magnets  bumped  gently  upon  girders  or  bars.  Then 
they  mysteriously  came  to  life,  and  clapped  to  the 
iron  like  the  suckers  of  an  octopus,  to  sail  swiftly  off 
with  sometimes  an  uncouth  kite-tail  of  magnetized 
pieces  dangling. 

Raleigh  looked  at  Smetana's  thin,  frail  hands,  and 
thought  of  the  Titan  they  commanded  all  day. 

"Mighty  responsible  job — I'm  sure  I  should  push 
the  wrong  things,  and  have  a  cascade  of  girders 
trickling  down  someone's  neck.  Do  you  understand 
electricity?" 

"Oh  yes — I  study  in  night  school  here.  That  why 
I  live  here."  He  looked  round  Raleigh's  room  won 
der  ingly.  "You  have  so  beautiful  things,"  he  ob 
served  wistfully.  Like  any  impulse  to  beauty,  it 
warmed  Raleigh. 

"You  must  come  down  often.  I'm  over  at  the 
Hydraulic  too,  you  know." 

Smetana  nodded.  "Meester  McGill,  he  say  you 
want  me  sing  with  you." 

"Are  you  the  one  he  meant — with  the  tenor  voice  ? 


130  Chanting  Wheels 

That's  fine.  I'll  come  and  plead  nightly  till  you 
promise  to  join  us " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  remembering  McGill's  words 
— "He's  the  cousin  of  that  guy  that  was  killed  the 
first  day  you  come." 

He  crossed  quietly  to  him.  "I — tell  me  how  your 
cousin  is,  the  sister  of  the  man  who" — he  got  no 
further,  for  Smetana  had  half  started  up,  his  hands 
had  clenched,  and  his  face  had  gone  suddenly  grey. 
Raleigh  glanced  into  his  eyes  in  amazement — they 
fairly  smoked.  He  awkwardly  rushed  on. 

"I — um — so  sorry — so  little  I  could  do — I  was 
there,  you  know,  and " 

Smetana's  hands  shot  out  to  him. 

"Eet  was  you — so  good — to  heem — I  not  know 
who" — he  choked,  and  his  thin  fingers  dug  into 
Raleigh's  arm. 

Raleigh  nodded,  agitated  by  the  burst  of  emotion. 
Suddenly  the  boy  bent,  and  to  Raleigh's  intense  em 
barrassment,  kissed  his  hand  violently.  Then  he 
lifted  a  torn  white  face.  He  was  almost  incoherent. 
Raleigh,  appalled  by  the  torrent  of  emotion,  gaped 
speechless.  The  boy  suddenly  hid  his  face  and 
sobbed.  Raleigh  patted  him  gently. 

"There — boy — don't  do  that — I  know  it's  fright 
fully  hard — there  laddie."  His  own  ready  sympathy 
was  getting  the  better  of  him. 

Suddenly  Smetana  raised  his  head  and  looked  at 
Raleigh  with  eyes  glowing  dully,  but  a  face  vacant 
of  every  vestige  of  feeling ;  a  slate  sponged  out. 

"I  lofed  him"  he  whispered  in  an  even  tone.    "He 


The  Forbidden  Mode          131 

was  the  only  one — my  brudders  die — my  mudder 
die — he  evert'ing"  he  stopped  for  a  moment,  then 
looked  directly  at  Raleigh..  He  seemed  to  struggle 
with  a  large  but  vague  thought. 

"You — good"  he  said  slowly,  "but  They  bad; 
They  let  him  be  kill — they  want  him  keel" — again 
Raleigh  seemed  to  see  something  stir  back  of  the 
huge  eyes. 

"Who  are  They?"  he  said  hastily,  fearing  another 
burst  of  hysteria,  and  conscious  of  a  coldness  as  he 
looked  into  the  boy's  strange  eyes. 

Smetana  waved  his  hands.  Words  served  him  ill. 
"De  Hydraulic  de  bosses — dose  press " 

Raleigh  smiled  and  slapped  his  shoulder  gently. 
"Oh  come  now,  really"  he  said  kindly.  "It  was  an 
accident — a  terrible  accident — you  mustn't  blame 
them.  Surely  you  don't  think  the  'bosses' " 

Smetana  stopped  him.  "That  press"  he  said  very 
low  "eet  is  not  work  right.  My  cousin,  he  tell  me. 
De  switch,  he  not  cut  off  good.  He  report  it  ... 
eet  is  not  fix." 

Raleigh  was  silent,  fearing  he  spoke  the  truth, 
looking  at  him  with  new  eyes  for  his  suffering. 

A  tremendous  thump  on  the  door  startled  them 
both,  and  without  more  ado  McGill  roared  in,  his 
eyes  and  cheeks  glowing  with  the  outer  cold. 

"Hello,  Dan"  he  paused  at  sight  of  Smetana. 
"Why  I'll  be  damned — you  found  him,  huh?" 

From  the  depths  of  his  closet  Raleigh  winked  vio 
lently  at  McGill. 

"We're  going  to  take  Smetana  with  us  to  the 


132  Chanting  Wheels 

show"  he  said.  "You'll  come,  won't  you  ?"  Coming 
once  more  into  the  boy's  vision. 

Smetana's  face  broke  into  a  smile  like  sudden 
sunshine. 

"Oh  yes — I  come — you  sure  you  want  me  ?"  with 
a  wist  fulness  that  caught  too  the  blithe  McGill. 

"Course  we  want  you"  he  shouted  "Run  an'  get 
your  coat." 

Raleigh  explained.  "He's  terribly  cut  up  about 
it,  and  I  want  to  keep  an  eye  on  him,"  he  finished. 
McGill  nodded,  and  Smetana  rushed  back,  having 
donned  a  violent  magenta  tie  and  a  dark  overcoat. 
Raleigh  was  bubbling  of  his  new  theme  to  McGill. 
"I'll  use  it  for  an  original  tune.  Parker  said  he'd 
like  some  original  music,  you  remember." 

At  the  desk  he  snatched  the  one  envelope  the  clerk 
gave  him.  It  bore  the  red  triangle  of  the  Y.M.C.A 

"Excuse  me  a  minute"  he  said,  and  read  eagerly. 

"Dear  Mr.  Raleigh"  ran  the  letter.  "In  view  of 
the  fine  work  you  are  doing  with  the  men  of  your 
place  of  work  in  music,  and  the  value  the  auditorium 
must  be  for  that  work,  we  have  reconsidered  the  ques 
tion  of  your  leaving  the  building,  and  will  be  glad 
to  have  you  with  us. 

"Most  sincerely 
"R.  A.  STOKES,  Gen.  Sec'y." 

Raleigh's  shout  of  laughter  caused  the  others  to 
turn  inquiring  faces,  and  Freddy  was  jocose. 
"Love  you,  does  she?"  he  grinned. 


The  Forbidden  Mode          133 

"Adores  me,  if  one  judges  by  what  she's  done. 
No — it's  really  something  rare.  Remember  the  row 
and  my  going  to  be  kicked  out  of  here  I  told  you 
about  ?  Well,  I'm  not.  It's  all  set." 

"How  did  you  pull  it?" 

"A  gentleman  had  his  fingers  manicured."  And 
this  was  all  they  could  elicit. 

Late  that  evening  they  sent  a  happy  and  radiant 
Smetana  home  to  the  Y.M.C.A.,  glowing  in  the 
warmth  of  the  two  men's  easy  kindness,  and  the 
more  tactile  comfort  of  mountainous  food  in  which 
they  had  all  indulged  after  the  movie. 

But  before  he  slept,  the  dark  cloud  of  pain  swept 
back  upon  him,  and  the  spinning  of  his  mind  came 
clearly  to  him  again,  its  slow  spinning  round  a  focus 
it  could  not  find.  Vague  shapes,  machines  with 
cruel  faces,  floated  round  him,  circling  faster  and 
faster  in  his  mind.  Finally  he  fell  asleep  and 
dreamed  that  a  spinning  head  had  attached  itself  to 
the  magnet-crane.  It  whirled  and  whinced,  and  be 
gan  spinning  up  the  crane-arm  to  him.  It  became 
luminous  with  the  heat  of  its  own  motion — he  felt  it 
hot  on  his  face.  He  awoke  with  a  scream,  in  a  blaze 
of  winter  sunshine  falling  across  his  bed.  But  the 
face  remained.  It  was  the  face  of  David  Harde. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MORE  FAMILY  PORTRAITS 

IT  was  past  midnight  when  McGill  and  Raleigh 
*  walked  arm  in  arm  up  I47th  Street,  singing  softly, 
their  steps  crunching  on  the  frozen  sidewalk.  McGill 
turned  in,  drew  a  key  from  his  pocket,  opened  the 
door,  and  pulled  Raleigh  into  darkness.  Warmth,  a 
lingering  odor  of  tobacco,  flowers  somewhere,  an 
integrity  of  knitted  life,  an  atmosphere  complete, 
rushed  to  him. 

"Snff,  snff,—  snff"  went  Raleigh. 

"Hey — "  McGill's  voice  was  a  hoarse  whisper, 
"What's  the  matter?  Smell  smoke  or  somethin'?" 
He  was  fumbling  for  the  light-switch. 

"No — I  smell  the  breath  of  home" — a  speech 
which  Freddy,  leading  the  way  into  an  upper  hall 
he  had  flashed  into  light,  accepted  as  one  of  Raleigh's 
incomprehensibles. 

Raleigh  dreamed  vividly  of  strange  things  in  a 
way  to  delight  the  soul  of  Freudian.  Goldenhaired 
manicurists  chased  middle-aged  gentlemen  up  a  long 
incline,  with  a  grand  piano  at  the  top,  and  suddenly 
vanished.  Raleigh  reached  the  piano  to  find  Eleanor 
Grayson  and  Smetana  looking  with  horror  into  the 

134 


More  Family  Portraits        135 

raised  top  of  it.  Raleigh  also  looked,  and  saw  the 
body  of  the  crushed  workman,  stark  and  staring  of 
eye.  He  found  himself  playing — the  workman's  body 
muffled  the  strings.  He  thought  Smetana's  "They" 
appeared,  huge  squamous  shapes  that  floated  round 
like  a  crowd  of  jelly-fish — somehow  the  visual  repre 
sentation  of  a  corporation — a  multiple  expression  of 
a  unity.  Raleigh  played  the  "shop"  theme  that  had 
come  to  him  that  day,  and  They  vanished.  The  dead 
man  dissolved,  and  streamed  in  dark  ribbons  out  of 
the  piano,  whisked  humming  after  them,  and  van 
ished,  and  suddenly  the  girl  who  had  been  with  him 
at  the  accident  was  sitting  a-top  the  piano.  She 
tickled  his  nose  with  a  long  feather  ...  he  awoke 
to  find  McGill's  laughing  face  above  him,  and  in  his 
hand  a  lathered  shaving  brush  with  which  he  had 
been  slyly  dabbing  Raleigh's  nose. 

He  sat  up  wildly.  "Good  Lord"  he  gasped.  "I've 
had  the  maddest  dream." 

"I'll  say  you  have"  laughed  Fred.  "You  woke  me 
up  hollerin'  clear  in  my  room.  Breakfast  is  about 
ready." 

Raleigh  dressed  quickly,  his  eye  running  over  the 
room,  papered  in  light  pink  with  small  yellow 
flowers  in  it.  On  one  side  hung  two  or  three  pen 
nants,  on  another  smoke  chromos.  Above  a  desk 
a  curious  piperack  made  of  elk-horns,  where  hung 
four  dusty  pipes.  Raleigh  wandered  to  the  desk — 
he  snatched  a  picture  from  it,  and  stared.  The 
inadequate  photography  and  stiff  pose  could  not 
destroy  the  beauty  of  the  face.  Raleigh  shouted. 


i36  Chanting  Wheels 

"Freddy"  he  roared,  in  a  tone  to  bring  McGill 
half -shorn  from  the  bathroom.  He  held  up  the 
picture.  'Who  is  this  ?" 

McGill  looked  at  the  picture.  His  eyes  twinkled 
above  the  lather.  "Oh,  that's  a  little  friend  of  mine. 
You'll  meet  her  soon." 

"But  I  have,  you  great  goose!  The  day  of  the 
accident.  When  Smetana's  cousin  was  killed.  She 
was  the  girl  I  told  you  about!" 

McGill  chuckled.  "Well,  you'll  meet  her  again. 
What  yuh  think  of  her?" 

"An  absolute  dear — why,  I  thought  about  her 
even  in  the  middle  of  that  awful  thing.  Like  a  fool, 
I  never  even  found  out  her  name.  What  luck !  Do 
tell  me  all  about  her.  Does  she  live  near?" 

Freddy  disappeared  into  the  bathroom.  "Tell 
you  after  breakfast"  he  mumbled  through  soap 
lather.  He  hastened  his  shaving  with  unheard  of 
zeal  for  Sunday  morning,  so  that  by  the  time  Raleigh 
was  dressed  he  had  long  since  clattered  down  to  the 
kitchen.  To  Raleigh's  nostrils  rose  the  incense  of 
those  twin  Lares  and  Penates  of  the  breakfast  table 
— coffee  and  bacon. 

When  he  descended,  glowing  and  immaculate,  he 
found  a  thickset  young  man  with  powerful  shoulders 
and  light  hair  fitting  his  head  like  a  cap,  seated  in  a 
froth  of  Sunday  papers,  his  slippered  feet  comfort 
ably  planted  on  the  polished  railing  of  a  large  round 
stove.  His  open  shirt  revealed  a  muscular  white 
throat.  At  sight  of  Raleigh  he  rose  quickly  and 
smiled.  He  had  very  grave  gray  eyes,  and  a  square, 


More  Family  Portraits         13? 

powerful  face.  He  looked  at  Raleigh  a  little 
uncertainly.  Raleigh  held  out  his  hand  easily. 

"I  don't  know  which  one  it  is"  he  said  pleasantly, 
"Bill  or  Bob  or  Con— I'm  Raleigh." 

The  other  gripped  his  hand.  "I'm  Bob"  he  said 
quietly.  "Fred's  talked  a  lot  about  you.  Sit  down ; 
Fred's  in  the  kitchen — he'll  be  in  directly."  He 
drew  up  a  chair;  Raleigh  did  as  bidden.  This  was 
the  next  oldest  brother,  then,  with  the  very  good 
position  tat  the  White  Motors,  and  the  passion  for 
reading  books  on  all  things  mechanic,  and  the  light- 
heavyweight  boxing  champion  of  the  shops.  Raleigh 
felt  his  able,  grave  presence,  and  thought  of  the 
militant  guildsmen  of  mediaeval  Bruges ;  he  felt  they 
must  have  exhibited  the  same  unromantic,  not 
unattractive  power.  Raleigh  liked  him,  but  felt 
subdued  in  some  curious  way.  Here  was  a  person 
before  whom  he  could  not  possibly  frivol,  he  thought. 

All  this  flitted  through  Raleigh's  mind  with  the 
rapidity  of  unregistered  intuition  as  he  settled  into 
a  chair,  his  back  to  the  adjoining  dining  room.  He 
fell  industriously  to  making  conversation. 

"Fred  told  me  you  pulled  down  the  White  boxing 
championship  last  week,"  he  said,  looking  at  the 
other  with  the  admiration  of  every  artist  for  physi 
cal  achievement.  "That's  splendid — I'd  much  rather 
do  that  than  write  a  symphony." 

Bob  showed  signs  of  embarrassment  piercing  his 
gravity.  He  stirred  the  papers  with  one  foot.  "Oh, 
it  doesn't  amount  to  much"  he  muttered.  Then  he 
looked  at  someone  over  Raleigh's  head,  and  smiled 


138  Chanting  Wheels 

with  a  tenderness  that  changed  his  whole  face. 
Raleigh  turned  and  saw  Fred,  his  face  wreathed 
with  merriment. 

"Here's  somebody  you  wanted  to  meet"  he  said, 
and  reached  behind  him,  where  someone  stood, 
concealed  by  his  big  body. 

There  emerged  the  girl  of  the  accident. 

She  faced  Raleigh,  in  the  full  light,  and  smiled 
eagerly,  clearly  not  recognizing  him.  She  held  out 
a  hand. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Raleigh"  came 
the  rich  remembered  contralto.  "Freddy's  talked  so 
much — " 

Then  she  stopped,  and  her  face  flushed.  "Why" 
she  cried  "You're  the  one  who — "  she  stared  for  a 
moment  then  whirled  on  Fred.  "He's  the  one  at  the 
accident,"  she  cried. 

Fred  chuckled.  "Course  he  is.  I  was  a  nut  not 
to  know  it  when  you  told  me  'bout  him.  When 
he  saw  your  picture  I  knew." 

Raleigh  gave  a  little  crow  of  delight.  "Fancy 
finding  you  here!"  he  carolled  joyously.  "Isn't  it 
luck.  I  am  glad.  Did  you  know  I  was  the  chap 
you'd  seen  at  the  accident?" 

Peggy  was  gazing  at  him  out  of  suddenly  shy  eyes, 
and  smiling  with  the  laughter  lines  he  so  re 
membered.  No  wonder  McGill  had  seemed  familiar 
to  him.  She  looked  down,  suddenly  pink. 

"I — I  hoped  you  were.  Seemed  like  it  might  be 
you." 

This  was  unreasonably  pleasant  to  him.    She  had 


More  Family  Portraits        139 

seated  herself  on  a  low  stool.  He  pulled  a  chair 
beside  her. 

"But  why  didn't  you  ask  Fred  to  ask  me — he 
never  mentioned  it  at  all." 

Peggy  rose  to  the  sound  of  clattering  dishes  from 
the  kitchen.  Her  voice,  with  its  rapid  rise  and  fall 
of  words  like  a  wave  rolling  smoothly  over  rocks, 
softening  and  uniting  them  in  liquid  curves,  came 
over  her  shoulder  as  she  retreated  kitchenward. 

"Because  I  was  afraid  you  might  not  be,  and  I 
wanted  you  to  awfully."  She  vanished.  Raleigh 
turned  on  Fred  and  seized  his  shoulders. 

"You  shameless  bandit"  he  cried.  "Fancy  con 
cealing  a  sister  like  that — " 

"Conceal  yer  hat"  retorted  Fred  grinning.  "I've 
been  trying  to  get  you  out  here  for  a  month." 

"You'll  be  a  year  trying  to  get  me  away"  Raleigh 
shot  back,  with  a  cosmic  smile  that  included  earth 
and  sea  and  sky. 

"I  hope  so"  came  in  a  resounding,  pleasant  voice 
from  behind  him,  and  he  turned  to  see  a  big  woman, 
tall  and  powerful,  coming  to  him  from  the  kitchen. 
Her  light  hair  was  straight,  and  swept  back  from 
a  square  forehead,  and  she  gave  Raleigh  a  fine 
handclasp  like  a  man's. 

"I'm  very  glad  you  could  be  coming  out  to  us" 
she  went  on,  with  the  faintest  of  Scotch  burrs  in 
her  r's.  Her  voice  touched  the  same  depths  as 
Peggy's,  but  by  virtue  of  its  steadiness  and  lack  of 
the  girl's  curling  intonation,  seemed  deeper  still. 
Raleigh  had  a  swift  impression,  of  a  heroic  figure — 


140  Chanting  Wheels 

the  high  forehead,  the  strong  face,  with  wide,  kind 
mouth,  and  the  strength  of  the  body — it  was  a 
creature  who,  in  another  age,  might  have  seized  the 
Valsung  sword,  and  swung  off  in  thunderous  flight 
across  the  sky,  to  the  clanging  lightnings  of  the 
gods. 

Instead — "Do  you  like  buckwheat  cakes?"  she 
smiled  at  him.  Raleigh  blinked  and  tumbled  to 
earth.  "Yes  indeed"  he  answered  mechanically, 
feeling  a  little  as  if  the  Nike  of  Samothrace  had 
proffered  him  a  gumdrop.  Mrs.  McGill  turned 
again  to  the  kitchen.  "Well — 'scuse  me  a  minute — 
I'm  makin'  'em  now." 

"Oh,  can't  I  come?"  said  Raleigh,  suddenly  the 
small  boy.  "I  want  to.  I  haven't  seen  them  get 
crisp  brown  bubbly  edges  for  years.  I  really  won't 
break  off  the  crisp  parts  and  eat  'em  first." 

This  swift  change  of  mood  Freddy  had  by  now 
accepted — it  plainly  puzzled  the  others. 

"Why  of  course — come  along"  cried  Mrs.  McGill 
good-naturedly.  "That  is,  if  you  don't  mind  the 
looks  of  this  kitchen — the  laddies  all  pile  in  on  Sun 
day  morning,  and  there's  no  getting  them  out  at  all." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  it  can't  compare  to  my  studio. 
I  used  to  have  the  fire  department  come  and  throw 
me  rope  ladders  to  get  out  of  the  debris.  I  was 
really  too  .  .  ."  he  ducked  his  tall  head  into  the 
kitchen  and  vanished. 

Fred  laughed  at  the  others.  "That's  him"  he 
chuckled.  "Now  he'll  ask  Ma  all  about  it,  and  I'll 
find  him  fry  in'  bucks  on  a  hot  billet  about  Monday." 


More  Family  Portraits        141 

He  turned  to  Peggy.  "Like  him?"  he  asked  in  an 
undertone. 

Peggy,  thus  addressed,  shot  him  a  sudden  strange 
look  then  turned  away  toward  the  stairs.  "Yes" 
she  said  in  an  unreadable  voice  "he's  very  nice." 

Her  "very"  curled  up  at  the  end  and  burred  like 
her  mother's — a  sign  with  Peggy  which  Fred,  with 
the  unconsciousness  of  most  brothers,  had  never 
learned.  The  strange  depth  of  her  sudden  look  too 
had  missed  him. 

Bob  it  did  not  miss.  His  eyes  turned  grave  as 
iron,  and  over  his  face  came  the  curious  tender 
softening  that  had  so  surprised  Raleigh.  He  sat 
down  slowly,  with  the  relaxed  grace  of  the  athlete, 
and  beckoned  to  Freddy  with  his  head.  Freddy, 
out  of  the  unconscious  boyhood  obedience  to  an 
older  brother,  came  at  once. 

Bob  looked  at  him  steadily,  and  his  lips  barely 
moved. 

"Is  this  fellow  straight?" 

Fred  looked  as  if  his  brother  had  struck  him  in 
the  face.  For  a  moment  he  was  speechless.  "What 
the  hell  do  you  mean?"  he  said  at  last. 

Bob  met  his  amazed  stare  steadily.  "I  know  you 
like  him,  and  all  that,  an'  he's  good-looking — most 
too  good-looking  to  suit  me — but  is  he  straight — 
does  he  run  around?" 

Fred's  face  had  tightened,  and  he  put  a  heavy 
hand  on  his  brother's  arm.  His  voice  was  hard  and 
rough. 

"Say — lay  offn't  that,  will  you?     I  know  Dan. 


142  Chanting  Wheels 

They  don't  make  'em  any  cleaner  than  that  kid. 
Why,  one  night  we  was  comin'  home  from  a  show, 
and  a  couple  'o  cuties — good-lookin'  they  was,  too, 
comes  along.  We'd  had  a  drink  or  two,  down't 
Allen's  an'  I  was  feelin'  pretty  manly.  They 
give  us  the  glad  eye,  an'  I  hauls  on  Raleigh's  arm 
and  we  all  stop.  He'd  been  talking  me  blue  about 
some  old  music  he's  keen  on,  and  for  a  minute  I 
don't  think  he  sees  'em  at  all.  Then  he  looks  fussed 
to  death.  One  of  'em  fasten's  onto  him,  and  t'other 
onto  me.  He  reaches  down,  real  easy,  an'  unhooks 
her  arm. 

"  'I'm  afraid  you've  picked  the  wrong  rose-bud' 
he  says,  an'  cold — say,  you  could  have  froze  ice 
cream  on  his  voice !  Then  he  laughs  all  of  a  sudden, 
and  puts  one  finger  on  her  cheek,  quick,  and  rubs 
it,  looks  at  it,  then  bows  like  a  Frog  general  given 
the  Craw  de  Gurr.  He  laughs  again. 

"  'No,  my  child,'  he  says,  Tm  not  goin'  out  for 
exterior  decoration  this  season,'  an'  pulls  me  along. 
I — come.  I  was  all  excited  and  talked  and  talked. 
I  was  a  little  sore,  an'  said  I  didn't  see  nuthin'  wrong 
with  givin'  'em  a  good  time.  He  faces  round  at  that 
an'  says  'course  it's  not  wrong — it's  much  worse  than 
that — it's  damn  poor  taste.  It's  like  drinkin'  out  of 
a  gutter.'  " 

Voices  from  the  kitchen  suddenly  made  them 
selves  audible.  "Oh,  let  me  carry  them,"  and 
"Don't  burn  yourself — that  plate's  been  where  it's 
hot." 

Fred  sunk  his  voice  to  a  whisper  and  stared  at 


More  Family  Portraits        143 

his  brother.  "What's  the  matter  with  you,  wantin,' 
to  know  all  Dan's  past?  You  ain't  no  little  snow 
drift,  as  I  ever  noticed." 

Bob  flushed  a  little  and  his  grey  eyes  dropped. 
"Oh,  I  just  wondered,"  he  muttered. 

"Never  were  there  so  many  cakes  in  the  world" 
cried  Raleigh,  suddenly  prancing  in  with  a  steam 
ing  plate.  Peggy,  entering  at  the  same  time,  flew 
to  him  with  authoritative  hands.  They  all  sat  down. 
Two  younger  brothers  appeared  from  the  back  yard, 
and  were  introduced,  ducking  sleeked  heads  and 
grinning. 

"Where's  pa?"  asked  Fred,  dumping  three  deck 
cakes  on  Raleigh's  plate. 

"Gone  down  to  talk  to  Mr.  Gardner.  He  had 
breakfast  an  hour  ago,"  returned  Mrs.  McGill,  seated 
like  a  statue  of  Justice  behind  a  huge  coffe-pot. 

Accustomed  as  he  was  to  the  matutinal  tea  and 
toast,  Raleigh  ate  himself  into  a  coma.  The  table 
groaned  with  cakes,  and  crisp  bacon,  and  crisp 
sausage,  fat  blurbs  of  fresh  butter.  Everyone  talked 
about  the  great  fall  of  snow  during  the  night, 
Raleigh  looked  across  at  Peggy  through  the  smoke 
of  the  boys'  cigarettes,  and  smiled. 

"Let's  you  and  Fred  and  me  go  for  a  walk"  he 
said.  "That  is,  if  I'm  able  to  leave  the  table  without 
the  help  of  a  crane." 

"We're  all  goin'  out  coasting"  returned  Peggy. 
"Bill — that's  my  oldest  brother — he's  comin'  with 
the  Ford,  and  Claire  and  Angus  fixed  the  bobsled. 
Bill'll  pull  us  out  to  the  Holburn  hills,  about  eight 


144  Chanting  Wheels 

miles  out.  There's  fine  skating  on  the  pond,  and  the 
coasting  is  slick." 

Raleigh  smiled  to  himself  to  hear  the  boyish 
phrases  on  her  lips.  No  wonder,  he  told  himself, 
with  a  brigade  of  brothers. 

The  table  broke  up,  and  after  changing  into  an 
old  sweater  and  trousers  of  Fred's,  he  sought  Mrs. 
McGill,  and  found  her  in  the  kitchen. 

"You  don't  know  how  nice  it  is  to  be  out  here," 
he  said,  smiling  at  her. 

Mrs.  McGill's  capable  hands  were  straightening, 
ordering,  "cleaning  up."  She  looked  up  at  Raleigh 
in  genuine  pleased  surprise. 

"That's  mighty  nice  of  you  to  say  that,"  she 
returned,  adding  a  gleaming  pot  to  the  row  back  of 
the  stove.  "Freddy's  talked  about  you  lots.  He 
seems  to  think  you're  about  right."  Her  deep, 
strong  voice  vibrated  among  the  pots  and  kettles. 

"He's  saved  my  life"  declared  Raleigh.  "I'd  have 
died  of  loneliness,  at  first,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  him. 
And — you  really  don't  know  how  I  love  being  out 
here"  he  added  between  shyness  and  impulse.  "You 
see,  I  haven't  had  any  home,  really,  for  about  six 
years.  You  see,  dad  died,  when  I  was  just  a  young 
ster,  and  I  lost  mother  just  before  I  went  to  college." 

Mrs.  McGill  had  stopped  cleaning  up,  a  half  wiped 
dish  motionless  in  her  hand. 

"Didn't  you  have  anybody  else?"  she  asked,  the 
big  voice  quieter. 

"Only  Uncle  Da — only  a  bachelor  uncle  who 
didn't — who  lived  in  another  part  of  the  country, 


More  Family  Portraits         145 

and  had  never  thought  much  of  me.  Oh,  he  wasn't 
unkind"  he  added  hastily,  "just  awfully  busy,  and 
I  always  took  care  of  myself,  anyhow." 

Bachelor  studios  were  outside  Mrs.  McGill's  ex 
perience. 

"But  where  did  ye  live,  laddie?"  Her  voice  had 
taken  on  a  deeper  coloring  of  Scotch  that  only  un 
wonted  feeling  gave  it. 

"Oh,  I  got  right  into  the  army  from  college. 
Then  I  lived  about — in  funny  little  studios  with 
chaps  I  knew.  It  was  rather  fun,  too;  we  used  to 
cook  all  sorts  of  messes,  but  somehow  they  always 
tasted  of  grease-paint  or  linseed  oil,  never  like 
home.  That's  why  I  love  this  so."  He  spoke 
lightly. 

Mrs.  McGill  stepped  to  him  swiftly,  and  her  big 
hands  were  gentle  as  they  touched  his  coat. 

"Ye  need  never  lack  a  home  while  I'm  standing, 
laddie"  she  said  brusquely.  Raleigh  looked  up  to 
see  the  strong  face  shining  gently.  He  astonished 
her  with  a  quick  smile  of  delight. 

"Bless  your  heart!"  he  cried  softly,  and  hurried 
out. 


CHAPTER    XII 

PREJUDICE AND  SKIIS 

THEY  had  swung  out  into  the  open  country,  and 
the  little  Ford  panted  up  the  Holburn  Hills 
with  the  long  bobsled  in  its  wake.  Peggy  had 
sandwiched  herself  between  Fred,  who  steered  in 
front,  and  Raleigh.  Then  came  Bob,  and  the  two 
younger  boys.  With  shouts  of  laughter  they  had 
fled  through  the  city,  leaving  stares  from  the  church- 
going,  and  howls  of  envy  from  one  sturdy  young 
ster  being  dragged  by  uncompromising  maturity  to 
devotions. 

"Fine-looking  bunch"  one  man  had  commented, 
gazing  after  them.  "Did  you  see  that  girl — gad, 
I  never  saw  such  color." 

His  wife  had  sniffed. 

The  Ford  stopped  beside  a  little  lake,  lying  like  a 
frosted  mirror  on  its  plateau.  Since  leaving  the 
city  they  had  been  gradually  rising,  and  the  country 
spread  before  them,  white  and  lovely.  The  lake  was 
dotted  with  a  few  black  figures,  and  the  whistling- 
wind  of  the  early  morning  had  blown  it  fairly 
clean. 

146 


Prejudice— and  Skiis  14? 

"I've  got  some  skates  for  yuh,  Dan"  said  Fred, 
as  they  tumbled  from  the  bob  and  stretched  cramped 
legs. 

"Thanks,  old  thing,  I  don't  skate.  Rotten  ankles, 
you  know.  You  people  go  ahead — I'll  start  a  track 
with  the  sled." 

"Don't  you  skate  at  all?"  asked  Bob,  looking 
up  from  lacing  on  a  pair  of  hockey  shoes.  Raleigh 
felt  again  the  critical  weighing  quality  of  the  man, 
and  knew  suddenly  that  to  Bob  he  was  an  orna 
mental  person  of  no  great  use  and  questionable  trust 
worthiness — recognized  the  old  distrust  of  the  man 
of  strong  common  sense  for  the  artist.  It  always 
irritated  him  into  doing  just  the  things  such  people 
expected  of  him. 

"Oh  no,  not  at  all,"  he  returned  airily.  "My  athle 
tics  are  limited  to  piano  scales — I'm  frequently  ex 
hausted  at  the  end  of  the  long  arpeggio.  Occasionally 
I  practice  on  the  organ,  too;  it  gives  the  legs  such 
development,  I  find."  The  others  laughed,  puzzled. 
Bob,  with  lightly  veiled  contempt.  His  antagonism 
came  suddenly  close  to  the  surface,  so  that  Raleigh 
tingled  to  meet  it.  But  he  only  bowed  over  his  shoes 
again  in  silence. 

Peggy  cast  down  her  skates.  "I'm  going  coasting 
with  Mr.  Raleigh"  she  declared,  and  threw  an  ex 
asperated  glance  at  Bob.  "Come  on."  She  met 
Bob's  suddenly  lifted  eyes  defiantly,  and  seized  the 
sled.  Raleigh  bounded  to  her  side.  She  began 
speaking  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  earshot. 

"You  mustn't  mind  Bob"  she  said  quickly.    "He's 


148  Chanting  Wheels 

really  a  dear  laddie,  but  awful  hard  to  get  at. 
You're  a  new  kind  to  him." 

"He  thinks  I'm  perfectly  useless,  and  thoroughly 
superficial.  You  know  he  does.  It's  all  right.  It 
doesn't  bother  me  in  the  least."  He  slipped  a  hand 
under  her  arm.  "You  don't  think  so,  do  you?"  he 
asked  naively. 

She  looked  up  frankly.  "I  think  you're  a  wonder" 
she  said  with  fine  candor.  "Of  course,  you're  dif 
ferent  from  us — you  write  music,  and  you've 
travelled  lots,  and  all  that.  But  you're  real,  some 
way." 

Raleigh  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief. 

"Peggy"  he  said  earnestly,  bending  down  to  her, 
"All  that  doesn't  matter.  I  know  boys  at  school  that 
had  fine  shells — good  looks,  a  delightful  way  of 
talking,  minds  that  could  unravel  yards  of  informa 
tion  about  eighteenth  century  poetry  and  the  specific 
gravity  of  oils  and  the  latest  theory  of  government. 
Under  it  was  nothing.  I  knew  men  later — in  the 
army — that  couldn't  spell  their  own  names,  and  yet 
somehow  they — answered — there  was  something  in 
them,  fine,  splendid,  strong  that  the  others  didn't 
have,  a  core,  an  essence  ...  I  wonder  what 
it  is  I'm  trying  to  say"  he  finished  rather  lamely. 

Peggy  had  never  taken  her  eyes  from  his  face. 
Now  she  smiled,  and  her  countenance  bore  all  the 
wisdom  (which  is  not  knowledge)  of  the  ages. 

"It's  the  heart  of  understanding,"  she  said. 

Raleigh  stared  at  her.  "Where  did  you  get  that  ?" 
he  demanded. 


Prejudice— and  Skiis  149 

"It's  in  an  old  Irish  legend  that  my  father  often 
told  me,"  she  said.  Gently,  she  added,  "He  couldn't 
write  his  own  name  till  he  was  a  grown  man." 

They  had  reached  the  top  of  the  hill.  Raleigh 
looked  down  at  her.  "He  didn't  need  to,  if  he  knew 
things  like  that"  he  replied.  A  little  silence  fell 
between  them.  It  was  very  still — the  white  slopes 
undulated  away  iridescent  and  gleaming.  Behind 
and  below  came  faint  shouts  from  the  boys,  busy 
with  hockey  on  the  lake.  Soft  clouds  evenly  covered 
the  sky;  they  scattered  the  light  into  a  soft  glamour 
like  golden  moonlight,  making  distances  deceptive. 

Peggy  suddenly  jerked  the  sled  forward,  and 
Raleigh  felt  a  conscious  effort  to  break  the  soft  spell 
that  was  creeping  round  them.  She  flung  herself 
on  the  sled.  Raleigh  gave  a  quick  push,  then  hopped 
on  behind  her,  the  guide  ropes  in  his  hands.  The 
snow  began  purling  past  the  sides  of  the  sled,  to 
tinkle  into  fine  dry  spray  against  his  face.  It  was 
a  little  too  deep  and  compact  for  ideal  coasting,  but 
as  the  sled  gained  momentum  the  plumes  of  snow 
grew  and  soon  they  were  flying  down  the  hill.  The 
sled  rocked.  Raleigh's  arms  slipped  round  Peggy, 
sitting  up  in  front  of  him,  and  she  turned  half  round, 
and  buried  her  face  against  his  sweater  from  the 
snow.  To  him  they  seemed,  for  a  moment,  one,  and 
alone,  shut  off  from  all  else  by  a  soft  whirring  cur 
tain  of  sound  and  a  flying  mantle  of  plumy  white. 

Then  the  ground  flattened,  and  the  sled  slowed. 
They  rose  laughing,  and  shaking  the  snow  from 
them,  their  faces  crimson.  Both  their  caps  had 


Chanting  Wheels 

come  off,  and  Pegg'y  hair  waved  wildly  round  her 
face.  On  the  long  climb  back  they  talked  of  many 
things,  and  Raleigh  felt  a  growing  consciousness  of 
intense  pleasure  in  her  mere  presence.  Often  his 
quicker  mind  went  beyond  her,  quite  as  often  she 
surprised  him  with  a  quaint  sageness.  He  was 
egocentric  enough  to  sort  his  emotions  carefully — 
he  knew  the  thing  he  felt  for  Peggy  had  nothing  to 
do  with  mind  whatever — that  it  lay  beyond  and 
below  any  intellectual  currents,  sounding  a  deep 
note  of  its  own.  He  felt  it  as  a  warm  glow,  as  a 
delight  in  little  things  they  agreed  upon,  in  past  ex 
perience  shared,  in  a  delicious  tingle  of  his  fingers 
when  they  met  her  flesh.  It  was  like  having  taken  a 
cocktail  of  perpetual  and  cumulative  effect. 

"Fred's  told  me  about  your  playing"  she  said  when 
they  were  nearing  the  top  of  the  hill.  "We're  going 
over  next  door  after  dinner  and  hear  you.  We 
haven't  a  piano,  as  I  guess  you  noticed ;  we  thought 
a  Victrola  would  be  more  fun  for  the  boys." 

"You  like  music,  Fred  says." 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  "I  don't  know 
whether  I  like  it  or  not"  she  answered  slowly.  "It — 
I  feel  like  someone  was  pumping  me  up  inside.  It 
makes  me  feel — I  can't  tell  you — all  chocky  and  big 
and  like  a  tree  might  feel — or  a  mountain.  Some 
times  it  most  makes  me  afraid." 

Raleigh  thought  of  Eleanor  Grayson's  deft  com 
ment  on  the  L'Apres-Midi  d'un  Faune — "Fairy 
horns,  muted  for  the  death  of  the  court  jester,"  and 
smiled  a  little. 


Prejudice— and  Skiis  is1 

At  the  summit  they  found  Bob  standing  beside 
a  stranger,  a  tall  thin  man.  Beside  him  lay  a  pair 
of  skiis,  and  he  was  scraping  ice  from  a  ski-pole. 

"Tired  of  skating?"  asked  Raleigh. 

"Wanted  to  see  this  stunt"  he  returned  shortly, 
glancing  at  the  skiis.  Raleigh  moved  the  sled  for 
ward  and  Peggy,  rather  winded,  dropped  on  it,  and 
began  doing  her  hair.  The  land  fell  away  from  the 
small  knoll  in  three  directions;  down  one  side  was 
the  track  they  had  made  with  the  sled,  another  to 
ward  which  it  now  pointed,  dropped  with  sudden 
steepness.  The  third  led  gradually  back  and  down 
to  the  lake. 

Raleigh  nodded  to  the  stranger.  "It's  wonderful 
snow  for  you,"  he  said,  "a  little  heavy  for  the  sled. 
Which  way  are  you  going  down?" 

The  man  indicated  the  slope  that  Raleigh  and 
Peggy  had  taken.  "That's  about  the  best,  I  guess," 
he  said,  walking  a  little  way  toward  it.  Raleigh 
followed  him.  "Ever  do  any  skiing?" 

"Not  in  this  country"  returned  Raleigh.  "I  spent 
the  winter  after  the  Armistice  at  San  Moritz." 

The  other  whistled.  "You  ought  to  know  how, 
then.  I'll  lend  you  my  skiis  after  a  bit  for  a  go, 
eh?" 

"Thanks,  I'd  love  to.  Why  don't  you  take  off 
down  that  steep  slope?" 

"Not  much!  That  goes  to  the  Holburn  quarry, 
and  there's  too  good  a  chance  of  getting  to  it  before 
you  realize  in  this  light.  It's  a  straight  drop  of  150 
feet  from  this  side.  You  can  barely  see  it — the 


i52  Chanting  Wheels 

snow  light's  deceptive  as  the  devil."  He  raised  a 
long  arm  and  pointed.  Raleigh  after  a  moment's 
gazing,  was  able  to  make  out  a  dim  line  across  the 
snow,  and  to  distinguish  between  the  snow  before 
and  behind  it  as  divided  by  considerable  space. 
They  turned  to  the  other  slope.  Raleigh  gauged 
it. 

"Well,  no  trouble  about — " 

A  peal  of  laughter  from  Peggy  turned  him  round. 
Bob  had  stepped  behind  her,  and  given  the  sled  a 
jerk,  so  that  if  flew  from  under  her,  and  she  plumped 
down  into  the  snow.  With  a  shriek  of  laughter, 
she  rose  and  made  for  him.  Raleigh,  glancing  at 
him,  saw  his  eyes  tender  in  spite  of  their  laughter, 
and  suddenly  realized  how  this  silent,  grave  young 
man  loved  his  sister.  It  explained  much  to  him. 

Peggy  ran  toward  him — he  whirled,  and  with  a 
mocking  "catch  me,  sis,"  flung  himself  full  length  on 
the  sled.  The  momentum  carried  it  over  the  brow 
and  down  the  steep  slope,  and  with  a  laugh  Bob 
sped  away. 

Simultaneously  Raleigh  and  the  stranger  leaped 
forward,  shouting.  But  already  the  sled  was  one 
hundred  feet  away.  Peggy  turned  a  laughing  face 
to  him — and  the  smile  froze  at  the  expression  on 
his. 

He  swooped  toward  the  skiis,  and  almost  without 
stopping  slipped  his  feet  into  them,  snatched  the 
stick  and  with  a  swift  plunge  glided  away.  He 
swayed,  rocked — almost  went  over — sank  to  one 
knee.  Then  he  recovered,  and  crouched  to  offer  less 


Prejudice — and  Skiis  153 

resistance  to  the  wind.  The  ground  dropped,  and  he 
seemed  to  lift  and  fly. 

The  sled  had  nearly  one  hundred  yards  the  start. 
Raleigh  tried  to  shout,  but  the  wind  choked  his 
words,  and  flung  them  behind  him  with  the  snow 
streaming  in  his  wake.  He  gained.  Slowly  the  dis 
tance  between  them  narrowed.  But  oh,  so  slowly, 
and  they  were  both  racing  like  shadows  toward  that 
dim  line  across  the  snow.  Raleigh,  his  eyes  blurred 
with  water  of  the  wind's  making  saw  it  drawing 
closer  and  spreading  out,  far  below.  As  he  watched 
it  grew  clearer,  closer  and  clearer,  with  the  lip  of 
the  precipice  standing  out  white  from  the  distant 
dim  plane  of  the  country  beyond. 

He  knew  Bob,  flat  on  the  sled,  with  the  snow 
whirling  round  and  the  wind  in  his  eyes,  could  not 
see,  would  not  see,  the  thing  that  he  saw,  drawing 
closer  and  closer.  The  distance  between  them  ceased 
to  shorten;  he  was  not  gaining  fast  enough.  The 
ground  had  flattened,  and  the  sled,  by  the  force  of  its 
greater  momentum,  pulled  away  from  him  visibly, 
moment  by  moment.  He  shouted.  This  time  Bob 
heard;  he  turned  round,  waved,  and  beckoned  to 
Raleigh.  He  thought  it  was  a  race.  Raleigh's  eyes 
closed  for  a  moment. 

Then  he  felt  the  ground  drop  blessedly  from  under 
him,  as  the  hill  stooped  to  a  steeper  descent.  The 
distance  between  them  narrowed,  narrowed,  but  the 
line  of  the  precipice  was  shockingly  close.  Raleigh 
straightened,  and  lifted  one  foot  almost  clear  of  the 
snow,  to  reduce  the  friction  surface.  The  distance 


154  Chanting  Wheels 

closed ;  it  was  not  more  than  one  hundred  feet  now, 
and  steadily  diminishing;  the  speed  was  terrific. 

Bob  turned  and  looked  back  at  him,  with  interest 
in  his  eyes  and  respect  at  Raleigh's  poised  sureness. 
Raleigh  shouted  again. 

"Stop"  he  cried  shrilly  "stop — the  quarry — the 
quarry"  but  the  wind  tore  it  away.  He  knew,  too, 
that  Bob's  ears  were  filled  with  the  whizzing  snow  of 
his  own  flight. 

Inch  by  inch  the  distance  between  them  narrowed. 
Raleigh  looked  ahead,  and  saw  that  the  horizon  had 
fallen  below  the  lip  of  the  quarry — knew  it  must 
be  very  near.  But  he  was  very  near  too  .  .  .  ten 
feet,  five — three — two — he  hunched,  gathered  him 
self  like  a  panther,  and  lunged  forward  and  sidewise 
on  top  the  figure  on  the  sled.  Instantly  came  a  blind 
ing  deluge  of  white  as  his  dragging  skiis  caught  the 
flying  surface  of  the  snow  sidewise.  A  hot  pain 
shot  through  his  ankle  as  the  skii  twisted.  His 
hands  sought  Bob's  wrists,  and  with  desperate,  sud 
den  strength,  he  tore  Bob's  hands  from  the  sides  of 
the  sled,  slid  his  arms  round  the  other's  chest  and 
jerked  backward  and  to  the  side.  The  sled  slipped 
from  under  them.  He  fell  on  his  back,  Bob  kicking 
impotently  on  top  him.  Instantly  they  began  rolling 
over  and  over,  Raleigh's  skiis  flying  like  flails,  and 
occasionally  thumping  one  or  the  other  of  them. 
Raleigh  felt  Bob's  powerful  chest  and  arms  expand, 
and  he  tightened  his  grip,  as  he  dug  desperately  into 
the  snow  with  his  skiis  and  elbows.  He  knew  he 
must  hold  on  to  him,  that  he  might  make  no  effort 


Prejudice— and  Skiis  155 

to  stop  his  rolling  if  released.  Every  moment  he  ex 
pected  a  final  slide,  and  then  the  sickening  emptiness 
of  space  below  them. 

Then  they  stopped.    It  was  very  sudden.    Raleigh 
did  not  himself  realize  it  till  he  heard  Bob's  voice. 
"Let  go  of  me,  you  damned  fool — what — " 
He  realized  his  arms  were  still  locked  in  a  death 
grip  round  Bob's  chest,  and  that  he  had  his  face 
buried  in  the  snow.     With  a  sudden  weakness  he 
sank  back  in  the  snow. 

A  red,  snow  wet  and  exceedingly  angry  face 
appeared,  and  turned  toward  him.  The  gray  eyes 
blazed. 

"Say — if  that's  your  idea  of  something  funny — " 
He  caught  the  look  in  Raleigh's  face  and  stopped 
quickly.  At  the  same  moment,  apparently  from 
somewhere  far  under  them,  rose  a  faint  crash.  Bob 
turned  slowly  over  and  got  to  his  knees.  Raleigh 
did  likewise.  Not  two  feet  from  them  yawned  cold 
space.  Over  the  precipice's  edge  dropped  a  soft  lip  of 
snow,  its  curve  broken  to  the  bare  rock  where  the 
point  of  Raleigh's  skii  had  scooped  it  away  in  the 
last  roll.  Bob  looked  at  it,  then  back  to  Raleigh. 
His  face  had  gone  suddenly  gray.  He  flung  toward 
him,  and  his  hands  shot  out  to  the  other's  arms  and 
gripped  them.  It  was  like  the  snatchings  of  a  ter 
rified  child  at  its  mother.  His  mouth  worked. 
"You  knew,"  he  got  out,  "you  knew" — 
Raleigh  nodded,  his  body  sagging.  "It  was  close" 
he  returned  through  stiff  lips.  He  slipped  out  of  his 
skiis.  The  sled's  track  cut  clean  grooves  in  the  lip  of 


156  Chanting  Wheels 

snow  and  vanished,  with  dreadful  significance,  into 
air.  Raleigh  dusted  off  the  snow  with  one  skii,  and 
crawled  cautiously  forward,  looked  over,  and 
beckoned  to  Bob,  who  crawled  after  him.  Far  be 
low,  they  made  out  the  splintered  fragments  of  the 
sled,  scattered  among  giant  lumps  of  stone  dwarfed 
by  distance  to  marbles.  Bob's  stronger  but  less 
resilient  nature  could  not  so  quickly  adjust.  He 
shuddered,  and  drew  back,  looking  at  Raleigh  with 
wild  eyes. 

''My  God"  it  was  almost  a  groan,  "and  I  thought 
you  were  a — "  He  flung  an  arm  across  his  face  as 
if  to  hide  the  wave  of  blood  that  mounted,  red  and 
heavy,  to  his  white  forehead. 

"Oh,  don't"  cried  Raleigh,  softly,  hastily.  "It's 
all  right."  He  turned  away,  but  felt  Bob's  hand  on 
his  arm.  The  hand  shook.  Raleigh  gripped  it,  and 
raised  his  eyes.  Bob  was  past  speech,  but  the  look 
he  gave  Raleigh  warmed  him  like  wine.  There 
were  tears  in  the  gray  eyes. 

Raleigh  was  too  near  collapse  to  permit  of  emo 
tions.  He  took  refuge  behind  the  shield  of  flippancy. 

"I'm  so  glad  this  happened"  he  observed,  dusting 
the  snow  from  his  coat  and  not  quite  achieving  a 
conversational  tone.  "Otherwise  we  should  have 
undoubtedly  come  to  blows,  and  I  would  have  been 
reduced  to  liquid.  Have  you  a  dry  cigarette  about 
you?  Mine  look  like  a  mustard  plaster  and  smell 
like  anchovy  paste." 


CHAPTER    XIII 

SECOND  MEETINGS 

"\V7E'LL  have  to  make  a  couple  of  trips,  now 

W  that  the  sled's  gone"  said  Bill,  looking  down 
the  slope  to  his  diminutive  Ford  Sedan. 

The  stranger  of  the  skiis,  who  stood  on  the  edge 
of  the  group,  came  forward. 

"My  name's  Wycherly"  he  said.  "My  place  is 
just  around  the  corner  of  the  road,  why  don't  you 
all  come  down  and  get  warm,  and  then  I'll  run  some 
of  you  in  town  in  my  car?" 

Raleigh  accepted  promptly.  Bill  spoke  aside  to 
Peggy.  "You  and  Bob  and  Fred  stay  with  Mr. 
Raleigh.  I'll  take  the  two  boys  in  with  me."  Bill's 
wife  nodded  and  smiled — a  solid  person,  who  tact 
fully  explained  why  Bill  could  not  take  the  rest  of 
them  in  one  trip.  The  groups  separated  with  brief 
farewells.  "Stop  by  home  and  tell  ma  we'll  be  late" 
bawled  Fred  after  them. 

The  "place"  of  Mr.  Wycherly  emerging  from  be 
hind  spruces  tufted  with  the  white  fur  of  the  snow, 
turned  out  to  be  a  long,  low  house  of  rough  stone, 
with  an  unmistakable  air  of  well-being.  They  en- 

i57 


158  Chanting  Wheels 

tered  a  wainscoted  hall,  dark  after  the  dazzle  of  the 
snow,  and  Wycherly  led  the  way  to  a  huge  living 
room  that  filled  one  side  of  the  house.  Windows 
faced  front  and  back,  deep  windows  with  broad 
seats  below  them.  There  was  a  long  centre-table, 
with  a  big  couch  against  it  facing  the  fireplace,  where 
a  log  fire  glowed  lazily  against  the  rough-hewn  stone 
of  the  chimney.  Chintz  and  many  bookcases  and 
innumerable  magazines  gave  color  to  the  big  room. 
In  one  corner  a  grand  piano  stood,  trailing  a  Chinese 
shawl  from  its  top. 

"Sit  down  anywhere"  said  their  host,  drawing 
chairs  toward  the  fire.  "Here  are  cigarettes."  He 
passed  an  Italian  carved  box  on  the  table.  As  a 
matter  of  course,  the  box  stopped  beneath  Peggy. 
That  young  lady's  black  eyebrows  leaped  into  arches 
of  slightly  pleased  astonishment. 

"Oh  no"  she  said,  laughing  the  next  second.  "I 
can't.  I  always  choke."  The  others  helped  them 
selves.  Their  host  hovered  at  the  door. 

"Excuse  me  just  a  minute"  he  said  "I  want  to  get 
Mrs.  Wycherly." 

Raleigh  limped  to  the  fireplace  and  held  out  his 
hands  to  the  blaze.  Peggy  came  and  stood  beside 
him.  The  steam  rose  in  wisps  from  their  clothes. 
Fred  sauntered  round  the  big  room  with  wide  eyes 
of  interest.  Bob  had  picked  up  "Aviation"  and  was 
not  looking  at  it,  but  watching  Raleigh  and  Peggy 
as  they  stood  together  by  the  fireplace.  Peggy  was 
speaking  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  thought  I'd  die — before  we  could  see  you  hadn't 


Second  Meetings  159 

gone  over.  The  hill  bumped  up,  you  know,  and  hid 
you  from  the  top.  We  didn't  realize  till  Mr.  Wych- 
erly  told  us.  Oh  Dan" — it  came  out  very  hurriedly 
— "suppose  you'd  been " 

The  door  opened  behind  her,  and  a  young  woman 
with  a  crown  of  light  hair  and  dark,  flashing  eyes 
hurried  to  Peggy,  her  hand  out. 

"Oh,  Miss  McGill — my  husband  told  me " 

At  her  voice  Raleigh  had  turned,  and  Mrs.  Wych- 
erly's  words  died  as  she  saw  him.  Raleigh 
shouted. 

"Anne!"  he  cried,  both  hands  out  to  her.  They 
talked  at  once. 

"Rip !    I  never  dreamed " 

" — didn't  even  know  you  were  married,  Anne — 
how " 

" — you  were  in  this  country — the  last  I " 

Wycherly  was  looking  at  them  with  amused  eyes. 
His  wife  turned  to  him. 

"Durant — you  remember  me  telling  you  about  the 
house-party  where  we  put  a  cow  in  the  Dean's  study 
— it  was  Rip  here  who  lured  her  up  the  stairs  with 
chicken  salad.  Apparently  chicken  salad  is  a  bovine 
passion." 

Wycherly 's  dark  face  flashed  white  teeth  in  a 
delighted  grin.  He  held  out  a  hand  to  Raleigh. 

"  '08,  Raleigh.    You  see,  I'm  an  old  man." 

"  '17  salutes  you,  Mr.  Wycherly.  It's  a  triumph. 
I  never  expected  to  see  Anne  Lindley  actually  an- 
thored."  They  grinned  with  the  ease  of  old  friends. 
"You  knew  her  nickname  of  course?" 


160  Chanting  Wheels 

Wycherly  nodded  assent.  "  'Intercollegiate 
Anne'." 

"Yes."  Raleigh  turned  suddenly  to  Peggy,  con 
scious  of  a  need  for  explanation. 

"Mrs.  Wycherly  was  at  all  the  house  parties  while 
I  was  in  college"  he  recounted.  "We  used  to  have 
to  post  pickets  round  the  fraternity  house  where  she 
was  to  keep  the  extra  stags  from  murdering  the  man 
who  had  her  up,  and  running  off  with  her  .  .  . 
Will  you  give  me  a  light  Freddy?"  He  deftly  drew 
the  two  silent  boys  into  the  circle  around  the  fire, 
and  introduced  them.  Peggy  was  looking  at  Anne 
with  a  frank  admiration  that  was  singularly  un femi 
nine  and  boyish. 

"I  don't  wonder"  she  said  slowly,  in  the  dipping, 
low  voice  that  Raleigh  had  grown  to  love,  and  with 
a  sudden  smile  that  traced  her  wreath  of  laughter 
lines.  Anne  Wycherly  looked  closely  at  her,  and 
stifled  a  tiny  sigh.  Not  for  Anne  again  the  rose- 
leaves  of  nineteen.  She  put  a  hand  lightly  on  Peggy's 
arm. 

"I'm  very  glad  you  weren't  there,  my  dear"  she 
laughed.  "No  man  would  have  looked  a  second  time 
at  anyone  else."  She  turned  to  Bob,  who  had  shot 
her  a  quick  look  of  appreciation.  "I  should  think 
you  would  have  all  the  emotions  of  Lazarus"  she 
said.  "My  husband  said  it  was  a  matter  of  inches." 
She  looked  at  Raleigh,  and  suddenly  pulled  down  his 
head  and  kissed  him.  "You  deserve  much  more" 
she  said,  looking  at  him  seriously. 

Peggy,   watching,   felt  a  queer  choking  in  her 


Second  Meetings  161 

throat,  and  unconsciously  she  stretched  forth  a  hand. 
Then  her  mind  rushed  to  its  arrested  functioning. 
No  one  had  noticed — save  Bob.  But  he,  curiously 
enough,  merely  smiled. 

They  grew  comfortable  and  warm  round  the  fire, 
and  Raleigh  a  little  drowsy.  The  pain  in  his  ankle 
was  steadily  diminishing.  Anne,  sensing  the  differ 
ent  timbre  of  the  members  of  her  party,  played  upon 
them  like  a  skillful  composer  on  an  orchestra. 
Raleigh  alone  was  conscious  of  it,  and  smiled  inward 
appreciation.  She  nodded  to  the  piano. 

"Just  been  tuned,  Rip.  One  of  Mr.  Steinway's 
best,  if  I'm  to  believe  the  agent.  When  we  got  it 
someone  asked  me  what  kind  I  wanted.  'Rose 
wood,'  "  said  Anne,  coyly.  "I  thought  the  agent 
would  expire.  Go  over  and  play  it,  there's  a  dear." 

"Come  on  Dan,"  cried  Fred,  suddenly  coming  to 
life.  He  and  Bob  had  turned  silent  before  the  be 
wildering  beauty  of  Anne  and  the  unaccustomed 
light  banter  of  her  talk. 

But  Raleigh  shook  his  head.  He  knew  Anne's 
musical  taste.  He  didn't  want  to  play  for  the  first 
time  to  Peggy  under  its  gay  and  careless  com 
pulsion. 

"Hand's  stiff  as  boards,  Anne"  he  said.  "Another 
time  I'll  come  out  and  tear  off  its  front  teeth.  Not 
today,  please." 

"Temperamental  mimosa"  mocked  Anne.  She 
turned  to  Peggy.  "The  truth  is,  Miss  McGill,  he 
knows  I  have  about  as  much  music  in  me  as  an 
iguanodon." 


1 62  Chanting  Wheels 

Raleigh  nodded,  unabashed.  "Rythmic  noise  was 
what  you  adored,  Anne,  if  I  remember  rightly.  It 
takes  the  strength  of  a  Sandow  and  the  flexibility  of 
a  snake.  This  morning  I'm  enfeebled  with  emotion 
and  torpid  with  cold.  Anyhow"  glancing  at  his 
watch  "I  think  we  should  go,  shouldn't  we?"  to 
Peggy. 

Anne  looked  from  Raleigh  to  Peggy,  and  he  could 
see  she  was  plainly  puzzled.  "I'm  spending  the  week 
end  at  Miss  McGill's"  he  said.  "Fred  and  I  work 
at  the  same  place." 

"Oh."  Anne's  discriminating  social  finger  was 
beginning  to  prod. 

"What  are  you  doing?  Don't  think  of  going.  I 
want  to  know  all  about  you,  Rip."  She  was  talking 
to  Raleigh,  but  her  eyes  lingered  most  often  upon 
Bob.  Most  women's  did.  He  radiated  physical 
power,  and  his  black  brows  and  light  hair,  his  very 
grave  gray  eyes  and  even  features  were  enough  to 
awaken  the  most  ennuied  to  interest.  She  was  prat 
tling  on  to  Raleigh.  "I  suppose  you're  writing  son 
nets  for  a  free-press  paper  and  shocking  songs  with 
no  tunes  to  them"  she  pursued  shamelessly. 

Raleigh  rose.    He  knew  Anne. 

"Writing  music,  and  making  steel,  Anne"  he  re 
turned.  "I'm  at  work  on  a  Symphonic  Study  at 
present.  It  begins  fortissimo,  swells  to  a  fortississis- 
sissimo,  and  dies  away  with  shrieks.  It's  scored  for 
three  punch  presses,  four  muted  conveyors,  first  and 
second  tube  mills  divisi,  and  a  choir  of  dynamos, 
with  an  auxiliary  battery  of  electric  riveters " 


Second  Meetings  163 

His  nonsense  was  cut  short  by  ululation  of  a  motor 
outside.  Anne  turned  to  listen. 

"That  must  be  Eleanor  Grayson  and " 

"Who?" 

The  triple  question  shot  at  once  from  Raleigh, 
Peggy  and  Bob.  Raleigh  went  on.  "Why,  I  had 
tea  with  her  not  long  ago.  How  amusing — almost 
the  one  person  I  know  here.  You  know  her,  don't 
you  Peggy?" 

Peggy  nodded,  and  fell  to  expounding  Eleanor's 
activities  with  the  enthusiasm  that  was  part  of  her 
generosity.  Anne  however,  heard  no  word.  She 
was  watching  Bob.  He  had  risen,  after  that  one  ex 
plosive  question,  and  was  looking  about  him  like  a 
caged  lion. 

Almost  at  once  the  front  door  burst  open,  and  in 
streamed  a  bevy  of  youngsters  in  sport  clothes. 
Babel  ensued.  Eleanor  greeted  Raleigh  with  a  sur 
prised  smile  of  pleasure.  Two  tall  lads  in  knickers 
promptly  posted  themselves  beside  Peggy.  The 
room  suddenly  was  very  full  of  people  who  all  talked 
loudly  at  once.  Raleigh,  after  an  instant's  chat  with 
Eleanor,  caught  Anne's  eye.  She  nodded  and  met 
him  at  the  door. 

"We  must  go,  Anne.    It's  been  bully  of  you " 

"I  sent  Durant  for  the  car.    He's  in  front  now." 

Thus  Raleigh  missed  Eleanor's  sudden  gasp  as 
her  eyes  met  Bob's.  He  was  leaning  against  the  wall 
in  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  had  not  taken  his 
eyes  from  her  face.  He  came  to  her  and  their  hands 
met. 


164  Chanting  Wheels 

"Bob!"  she  managed,  a  little  breathless,  her  cool 
poise  tottering  to  destruction.  "Why,  I" — across 
the  minds  of  both  swept  the  picture  of  a  black  road 
in  France,  a  disabled  ambulance.  .  .  . 

"I — it's  quite  taken  my  breath."  She  glanced  to 
the  door.  "You  have  to  go.  Will  you  come  and  see 
me  at  five  next  Thursday?" 

Bob  smiled  suddenly.  "Yes"  he  said  quietly,  in  a 
voice  a  little  unsteady.  He  turned  and  strode  to  the 
door. 

Anne  shooed  them  into  the  motor,  talking  vio 
lently,  principally  to  Raleigh. 

" — must  come  out,  Rip,  now  that  we've  found 
you  .  .  .  Net  Atwood  and  Tom  Allen  .  .  . 
yes — so  glad  to  have  met  you,  Miss  McGill;  you 
quite  do  me  in  with  envy  .  .  .  Athletic  Club  Tues 
day  night,  Rip " 

Raleigh  shook  his  head.  "Busy,  Anne.  I'll  call 
you  up,  though — It's  been  great  to  see  you  .  .  ." 

Peggy,  Bob  and  Raleigh  climbed  into  the  back 
seat  of  the  long  car  and  Fred,  with  critical  admira 
tion,  into  the  front  seat  beside  Wycherly.  "Fine 
car"  he  said.  "Like  the  valve-in-the-head  motor?" 
They  fell  into  easy  man-talk  about  engines  at  once. 

"It  is  women,"  thought  Raleigh  suddenly  "who 
make  social  distinctions  possible."  He  pondered 
over  this.  Anne  had  disturbed  him.  She  had 
flashed  back  his  old  world,  tantalizingly,  yet  under 
its  erstwhile  suave  shape  Raleigh  felt  he  could  see 
a  certain  flinty  hardness,  a  brittle  skeleton  peeping 
through.  It  was  as  if  his  new  experience  were  an 


Second  Meetings  165 

acid  that  ate  away  the  surface.  Tom  Allen — the 
Athletic  Club— dances,  conversations  feverishly  bril 
liant  .  .  .  He  was  looking  through  the  small  end 
of  an  opera  glass.  Eleanor's  words  of  a  recent  talk 
came  back  to  him  "Marionettes — and  my  enjoyment 
of  the  play  has  suffered  since  I've  peeped  behind  at 
the  people  that  pull  the  strings." 

They  were  quiet  as  the  car  sped  cityward,  and  the 
houses  began  to  straggle  into  irregular  and  slatternly 
outposts.  Bob  had  not  uttered  a  word.  Just  before 
they  reached  home,  Peggy  turned  to  Raleigh  after  a 
long  silence. 

"Did  you  know  Mrs.  Wycherly  awfully  well?" 
she  asked. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ORPHEUS  ON  MAIN  STREET 

PEGGY  drew  him  aside  after  dinner. 
"Do  you  really  want  to  go  over  next  door  and 
play  for  us?" 

She  looked  so  reproachful  that  he  laughed.  "Will 
there  be  a  mob?"  he  asked. 

"A  mob?  Oh — I  see.  No,  only  Emmiline  Stacey 
— it's  her  piano — and  her  father  and  mother.  You 
mustn't  mind  Emmiline;  she's  kind  o'  loud  some 
times." 

"I'd  rather  have  just  you." 

"I'd  rather  have  just  me  too"  said  Peggy.  She 
turned  to  the  door.  Raleigh  and  Fred  picked  up 
their  hats.  Bob  rose  from  his  book  and  slid  into 
his  coat. 

"You  comin'?"  asked  Fred  jocosely.  "I  never 
knew  music  meant  anythin'  in  your  young  life." 

"Never  has"  responded  Bob  imperturbably.  "I'm 
coming,  though." 

Raleigh  spoke  with  great  decision.  "Don't  by 
any  means  if  it's  going  to  bore  you"  he  said  a  trifle 
crisply. 

Bob  looked  at  him.    "I  don't  think  you'd  be  likely 
1 66 


Orpheus  on  Main  Street       167 

to  bore  me"  he  returned  squarely.  It  pleased 
Raleigh. 

Miss  Stacey  greeted  them  from  the  front  door, 
a  gold  tooth  flashing  them  in  like  a  welcoming  traf 
fic  signal.  A  diamond  comb  gleamed  from  her  hair. 
She  wore  a  necklace  made,  apparently,  of  crystal 
eggs,  each  with  a  shining  center,  and  round  earrings 
of  glass  with  pictures  of  Woodrow  Wilson  enshrined 
within  them,  and  terminating  in  small  pearls.  Her 
hair  gleamed  like  cooper  bushing.  Miss  Stacey 
might  have  posed  above  a  pawn  shop — her  small 
head  was  scarce  larger  than  the  two  huge  puffs  that 
sided  it. 

They  entered  a  rather  small  room.  A  tiled  fire 
place  with  a  gas  grate  therein  and  two  decks  of 
mantel-shelves  covered  with  china  mugs  and  sea- 
shells  on  red  plush  filled  one  side  of  the  wall.  There 
was  wall-paper  of  brown,  with  panels  and  a  red 
growth  from  the  mind  of  some  tired  decorator 
rioting  over  it. 

Two  elderly  people  were  playing  checkers.  There 
were  laconic  and  pleasant  greetings.  The  old  man 
held  out  a  hand  to  Bob.  "Why,  I  didn't  think  no 
dynamite'd  git  you  out  Sunday  night"  he  said,  with 
a  ponderous  wink  at  the  others.  Raleigh  was  intro 
duced.  There  fell  a  little  silence. 

"Well,  Dan,"  said  Fred  at  last,  "how  about  it?" 

He  grinned  at  the  piano,  an  upright  whose  surface 
shined  righteously  with  varnish  that  revealed  every 
fleck  of  the  golden  oak  beneath.  Over  its  front,  like 
foreign  labels  on  a  new  steamer  trunk,  were  plastered 


1 68  Chanting  Wheels 

startling  covers  of  sheet-music — a  girl's  face — with 
one  blue  eye  and  one  shadowed  green,  emerging 
from  a  lustrous  purple  background  whence  gleamed 
two  eyes  beneath  the  legend  "The  Baby  Devil  Vamp 
(The  Kiss  of  Death)."  On  another,  an  impossibly 
lovely  Ethiopian  looked  over  a  calico  shoulder  to  a 
long  path  of  moonlight,  which  crinkled  its  way  from 
the  shirt  front  of  a  wellknown  comedian  to  a  patch 
of  red  and  blue  watermelons.  Twisting  and  lurid 
vinestalks  curved  the  statement  "Them  Watermelon 
Blues  (I'm  just  a  Lovin'  Watermelon  Man)." 

Raleigh  looked  at  them,  then  back  to  the  others. 
He  seated  himself  and  twiddled  the  piano  stool  down. 

Peggy  came  and  stood  beside  the  piano,  leaning 
against  Fred.  He  smiled.  The  game  of  checkers 
went  on.  Emmiline  was  gently  ogling  Bob,  who  had 
sunk  rather  helplessly  into  a  chair  across  the  room. 
Raleigh  felt  something  was  due  her  as  hostess. 

"What  shall  I  play?"  he  asked.  He  damned  fer 
vently  under  his  breath. 

Emmiline  simpered.  "Oh,  anything,  just  anything 
at  all."  She  came  over  and  fumbled  in  the  blare 
of  colored  sheets,  and  drew  forth  one.  "This  is 
awful  good"  she  said,  spreading  it  out  "It's  grand 
to  jazz  to.  I  love  the  part  where  it  goes  ta-tee-ta- 
ta-ta,  but  them  sixteenth  notes  gets  me  every  time." 

Raleigh  glanced  through  it.  To  the  legend  that 
"I've  got  the  cutest  little  baby  doll  you  ever  saw, 
you  ever  saw,  Yes  boy  how  she  can  love,  that  turtle 
dove,"  ran  a  melody  whose  virtues  were  its  ryhthmic 
strictness  and  its  adherence  to  the  five  lines  of  the 


Orpheus  on  Main  Street       169 

staff.  It  had  an  impudent  directness  not  without 
charm.  Raleigh  grimaced  at  the  harmonization — it 
had  been  pared  down  to  bare  structure  for  simplicity 
— and  that  structure  a  clumsy  one. 

He  looked  at  Emmiline.  She  was  talking  to  Bob 
and  her  parents  again. 

"Want  me  to  play  this?'  he  said  politely. 

"Oh  yes — it's  so  cute  to  jazz  to."  She  turned 
again  to  Bob. 

Raleigh  played  it  uncompromisingly — emphasizing 
the  thin  accompaniment  and  not  putting  in  one  note 
that  wasn't  on  the  page  before  him.  Before  the  first 
bar  was  past,  he  heard  Mrs.  Stacey's  comfortable 
voice  in  placid  inquiry. 

"Emmiline,  did  you  get  that  gingerale  from  the 
grocery?" 

Raleigh  finished  with  a  vicious  bang,  and  stopped. 
Emmiline's  voice  rose  on  the  sudden  silence. 

"And  he  says  to  m'  there's  no  use  kiddin'  me 
along.  .  .  ." 

Raleigh  quirked  his  eyebrows  at  Peggy  quizzically, 
and  sought  to  subdue  the  rising  anger  in  him.  She 
looked  at  him  with  pained  eyes.  Raleigh  straight 
ened  his  shoulders.  It  shouldn't  be  spoiled  like  this. 

Without  warning  he  brought  his  hands  down  with 
a  crashing  discord.  Mrs.  Stacey's  start  sent  the 
checkers  spinning.  Emmiline's  jaw  hung  open  in 
mid-sentence.  Bob  blinked,  and  the  muscles  at  his 
jaw  sprang  into  sudden  prominence.  All  Raleigh's 
outraged  artist  sense  was  in  the  chord. 

He  allowed  the  notes  to  die  away  into  absolute 


17°  Chanting  Wheels 

silence.  He  felt  the  awed  look  of  the  Staceys  on  the 
back  of  his  neck,  but  the  atmosphere  had  perceptibly 
cleared. 

Then  he  began  to  play  the  same  tune  again,  but 
it  was  subtlely  changed.  Through  its  lilting  syncopa 
tion  stole  threads  of  strangely  lovely  counter  melody 
— sprays  and  wreaths  of  chromatic  decorations 
flung  themselves  lightly  through  the  trellis  of  the 
rhythm.  It  ended  with  a  scurrying  of  tiny  feet  at 
the  top  of  the  piano. 

Peggy  felt  a  shiver  of  delight  up  and  down  her 
spine.  Raleigh  had  waved  a  magic  wand,  and  an 
impudent  little  Cinderella,  with  harmonic  smuts  on 
her  nose,  had  turned  into  a  shimmering  elfin  princess. 

Then  he  began  it  again,  gravely,  with  slowed  time 
and  thoughtful  harmonies.  Processions  of  tonsured 
men  passed ;  the  tall  shadows  clustered  round  gothic 
pillars.  This  built  to  a  resounding  glory  of  mellow 
chords;  sun  flooded  dimly  through  stained  glass — 
flambeaux  burned  straight  in  the  crepuscular  gloom 
of  high  altars.  The  Cinderella  was  become  Jeanne 
D'Arc,  a  shining  saint  in  a  window. 

Again  there  was  an  instant's  stillness.  Then,  high 
and  faint,  came  a  call  from  a  Highland  trumpet, 
echoing  from  dark  crag  to  dark  crag  above  the 
heather.  Again  it  came,  then  joyously  the  swing  of 
sturdy  feet  along  a  mountain  trail — men's  voices  deep 
in  song — browned  faces — the  even  movement  of 
tanned  bare  knees.  They  passed.  Wistfully,  a  ques 
tioning  melody  stole  out  of  somewhere,  and  swelled 
into  a  poignant  cry.  Bob's  hand  suddenly  tight- 


Orpheus  on  Main  Street 

ened;  Fred's  arm  slipped  quietly  round  his  sister. 
Swiftly  the  melody  flung  up  like  a  wave  to  a  throb 
bing  crest  of  vibrant  questioning,  then  died  away  into 
the  Scotch  hills,  unanswered. 

Raleigh's  head  bent  above  the  piano  for  a  moment. 
He  knew  he  had  played  well,  for  he  felt  the  stir  of 
it  himself.  He  looked  to  Peggy,  and  found  she  had 
vanished.  Bob's  chin  was  sunk  on  his  chest,  but 
his  eyes  met  Raleigh's  with  such  a  look  of  pain  that 
he  stared,  for  the  moment  forgetting  Peggy. 

Then  Emmiline  Stacey  heaved  a  sigh  that  shook 
all  the  crystal  eggs  on  her  ample  bosom. 

"Gosh,  ain't  that  lovely"  she  pronounced  epically, 
as  Peggy  appeared  from  behind  a  curtain  door. 
Her  eyes  were  wet.  She  looked  at  Raleigh.  He 
rose  quickly.  The  room  stirred.  Peggy  came  close 
to  him,  her  big  voice  broken. 

"Oh"  she  cried  softly  "I— I " 

Eleanor's  beautifully  toned  room  swept  oddly 
across  Raleigh's  mind,  her  light,  lovely  voice,  her 
pat  response — "fairy  horns  muted  for  the  death  of 
the  court  jester."  Raleigh  looked  into  Peggy's  face. 
He  laughed  a  little  breathlessly. 

"You  know!"  he  cried  incomprehensively  but  with 
profound  conviction. 


CHAPTER  XV 

REHEARSALS 

TWO  men  were  walking  down  57th  Street,  talk 
ing — one  in  argument,  with  an  occasional  out- 
flung  thumb  or  a  raised  shoulder  of  protest.  He 
walked  smoothly — too  smoothly,  with  the  suggestion 
of  one  continually  glancing  over  his  shoulder  in  the 
furtive  bend  of  his  legs.  His  eyes  darted  continu 
ally  to  the  face  of  his  companion  and  away  with 
quick  little  thrusts.  One  hand  fingered  a  pointed 
chin — the  other  flicked  a  cigarette,  and  his  eyes  were 
so  close  set  that  one  had  the  impression  that  his  nose 
had  grown  up  somehow  between  a  single  eye. 

The  second  man  said  little,  nodded  often,  and 
occasionally  asked  a  question,  his  graceful  loosely 
hung  body  moving  easily  beside  his  shorter  compan 
ion.  When  he  gestured,  it  was  with  the  poise  of  the 
speaker,  arm  and  body  swaying  together  in  a  way  to 
dramatize  his  few  words.  His  voice  matched  his 
eyes,  cold  with  the  calculating  remoteness  one  sees 
in  a  cat  watching  birds  in  a  bush. 

As  they  reached  Seventh  Avenue,  the  shorter  man 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Well,"  he  hesitated — 

172 


Rehearsals  173 

"you're  running  things,  of  course,  but  I  think  that 
now's  a  bad  time  to  move.  This  man  Raleigh " 

The  other  stopped  him.  "You've  mentioned  him 
frequently,  and  told  me  nothing  about  the  man  him 
self.  Who  is  he,  Mengles?" 

Mengles  spat  dextrously  into  the  gutter.  "Damned 
if  I  know.  He  talks  like  a  swell  and  looks  like  one 
too.  Came  here  about  two  months  ago,  and  started 
this  quartet  stuff  I  been  tellin'  you  about.  It  all 
looks  like  a  stall,  but  I  can't  connect  him  with  any 
body  at  all.  Everybody  likes  him.  Mulgully  beat 
hell  out  of  him  when  he  first  came,  but  he  sure  took 
it  like  a  man.  The  point  is,  he's  getting  the  for 
eigners  with  him  ab-so-lutely." 

The  taller  man  turned  on  the  other  a  speculative 
grey  eye.  "Then  sign  him  up  right  away,  of  course." 

Mengles  stared.  "But  how  do  you  know  he  ain't 
a  man  of  Harde's?" 

The  bigger  man's  voice  was  smooth.  "How  does 
one  ever  know  anything,  my  friend?  One  takes  a 
chance.  There  is  nothing  to  lose  in  talking  to  him — 
you  can  simply  ask  him  to  join,  that's  all."  His  eyes 
flickered  and  became  warm.  "Can't  I  make  you  see 
that  we  have  to  clean  up  this  shop  now  ?  It  is  a  pivot. 
If  we  get  it,  we  shall  also  get  the  Malleable,  and  the 
Inverness  will  come.  They're  just  hanging.  Then, 
then" — he  stopped,  his  eyes  far  off,  his  head  lifted 
a  little,  so  that  the  grey  in  his  hair  showed,  and  the 
strong  lines  of  his  face,  water-marked  with  faded 
scars,  and  just  now  quivering  a  little.  What  he 
actually  saw  was  a  cinema  of  flashing  scenes — a 


174  Chanting  Wheels 

stooped,  thin  man  bending  above  a  casting,  a  ladle, 
glowing  with  hot  metal  swinging  in  an  arc  above 
him,  then  a  sudden  clank  and  a  cascading  of  liquid 
flames — shrieks — and  a  small  boy,  grimy,  pallid, 
bending  over  a  writhing  body  that  bit  at  the  black 
dust  of  the  casting  mould  .  .  .  then  another  pic 
ture — a  squat  room  with  a  fringe  of  children  hushed 
about  its  door,  a  gaunt  eyed  woman,  and  a  tall,  well- 
groomed  man,  who  drew  on  pearl  grey  gloves  and 
voiced  cool,  detached  refusals.  He  had  been  the 
small  boy — that  writhing  body  his  father's. 

This  repeated  drama  was  what  Grabler  always 
saw,  when  his  eyes  took  their  far  off  look.  This 
his  compeers  did  not  know,  this  core  of  the  man  that 
was  his  strength  and  his  weakness.  They  thought 
that  he  was  building  organizations  for  the  future. 

Mengles,  who  knew  better  than  to  interrupt  his 
chief  (and  who  secretly  despised  him  as  a  theorist), 
waited  resignedly,  flashing  now  and  then  a  glance  at 
Grabler,  and  biting  the  side  of  his  little  ringer. 

The  latter's  eyes  gradually  resumed  their  normal 
aloofness,  and  he  presently  stared  at  Mengles  with 
usual  detachment. 

"You  say  they're  having  a  meeting  here  tonight?" 

"Yes."  " 

"Very  well.    Let's  look  in  on  them,  if  we  can." 

Grabler  inquired  at  the  desk  for  Raleigh.  A 
large- faced  man,  upon  whose  blonde  countenance 
dwelt  professional  benevolence,  told  them  that 
Raleigh  was  conducting  a  meeting,  down  in  the 
auditorium. 


Rehearsals 


"What  sort  of  a  meeting?"  asked  Grabler,  dropped 
lids  apathetic  over  the  cigarette  he  lighted.  As 
the  match  flamed  up,  the  man  behind  the  counter 
adjusted  his  features  to  a  deeper  benevolence,  and 
laid  a  broad  white  hand  on  Grabler's  arm,  as  one 
who  would  cover  a  multitude  of  sins. 

"We  don't  smoke  in  this  room,  brother,"  he 
beamed,  voicing  a  tender  patience  that  winged 
seraphically  above  erring  man. 

"Oh,"  said  Grabler.  He  put  his  foot  on  the  match 
and  repeated  his  question. 

"We  don't  know  much  of  Mr.  Raleigh"  returned 
the  man,  with  less  keen  assurance.  "He  plays  for 
the  young  men  occasionally,  but  doesn't  participate  in 
Association  matters.  I'm  afraid  he  lacks  interest  in 
affairs  of  the  spirit.  He  offended  Mr.  Brahley  —  one 
of  our  workers  —  by,  —  um  —  his  attitude  at  a  Bible 
plass." 

"What  sort  of  meeting?"  asked  Grabler  again, 
with  a  twitch  of  impatience. 

"I  don't  quite  know.  »I  think  that  he  is  doing 
social  work  in  connection  with  his  music.  All 
sorts  of  men,  mostly  foreigners,  come  here  often, 
and  I  have  heard  them  singing  in  the  audi 
torium." 

"Where  is  it?"  cut  in  Mengles. 

"First  stairway  to  the  left,  in  the  basement." 

The  two  men  found  the  auditorium  locked,  all 
save  one  door,  about  which  clung  a  curious  half- 
dozen  young  men  from  the  building.  Grabler  peered 
in,  and  Mengles  crowded  beside  him.  The  darkened 


176  Chanting  Wheels 

auditorium  led  down  to  the  stage.  This  shone  in 
half  light  and  was  filled  with  men  lined  up  across  it, 
talking  to  each  other  in  undertones.  In  a  circle  of 
light  below  the  stage  lay  a  grand  piano,  and  Raleigh, 
coatless  and  flamingly  cravated,  bent  over  the  music 
rack,  pencil  in  hand.  As  the  two  slipped  in,  he  fin 
ished  with  a  quick  dab  at  a  page,  and  leaped  to  his 
feet,  facing  the  stage. 

"Now!"  he  cried.  "Begin  again.  That  last  was 
awful.  Mulgully,  you've  got  to  keep  your  voice 
down  where  I  make  a  face  at  you,  otherwise  Gio 
vanni  will  never  be  heard  at  all.  Watch  me  more, 
all  of  you,  and  keep  together.  Now !" 

He  rapped  the  pencil  on  the  piano.  Instantly  the 
men  ceased  talking,  and  faced  him.  At  the  disci 
plined  unanimity  of  it  Grabler,  huddled  into  a  seat, 
leaned  forward  sharply.  This  was  better  even  than 
he  had  hoped.  Giovanni,  the  swart  and  fiery  leader  of 
the  Italians,  beamed  from  the  front  row — beside  him 
Polidski,  and  farther  along  explosive  with  whiskers, 
the  towering  figure  of  Katousdian,  and  Cszysdik,  his 
dark  face  merry  as  Mengles  had  never  seen  it  over 
a  press — they  were  all  there,  all  the  men  whom 
Mengles  knew  were  leaders,  each  of  his  own  coun 
trymen. 

Then  Raleigh's  pencil  went  up,  paused,  and  came 
sharply  down,  followed  by  a  spurt  of  song,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  bung  drawn  from  a  barrel  of  pent  voices. 
He  led  through  several  phrases,  then  abruptly  stopped 
them,  and  began  crisp  suggestions,  now  in  English, 
now  in  Italian — once  in  a  halting  dialect  that  brought 


Rehearsals  177 

delighted  grins  from  two  strapping  Bohemians  and 
nods  of  comprehension. 

Grabler  sucked  in  his  breath.  "God !"  he  touched 
Mengles'  knee — "that's  great — look  at  them — not  a 
sound.  Why,  he's  got  that  bunch  solid  with  him — 
he  knows  how  to  control  people " 

Raleigh's  lifted  voice  cut  in.  "Well — that's  all 
for  tonight.  It's  going  to  be  fine,  boys,  believe  me — 
I'm  proud  of  you.  We'll  rip  the  roof  right  off  the 
Welfare  Building.  Remember — tomorrow  night — 
the  whole  bunch  of  you — and  I'll  have  the  costumes 
for  the  minstrel  act." 

He  dropped  into  a  seat  beside  the  piano  and  ran 
his  hands  through  his  tangled  blonde  curls,  talking 
vigorously  to  a  man  beside  him.  The  group  on  the 
stage  broke  out  of  line,  and  began  tramping  out  of 
the  hall  in  twos  and  threes,  now  and  then  stopping 
to  speak  to  him  or  to  grin  at  the  man  beside  him. 
Mulgully  turned  back  and  called. 

"Hey  Rosy — do  I  honest-to-Gawd  have  to  shave 
off  my  mustache  for  this  minstrel  show?"  There 
were  scattered  chuckles.  Raleigh  flung  a  grin  over 
his  shoulder. 

"Absolutely,  Mully.  Anybody  with  tombstone 
teeth  can't  hide  'em  under  a  bush  like  that  if  he's 
goin'  to  play  coon." 

Before  the  first  men  reached  the  doors,  Mengles 
and  his  chief  were  leaving  the  lobby.  The  latter  was 
talking  in  quick,  whip-like  phrases.. 

"You've  got  to  get  him.  I  don't  care  how  you  do 
it,  but  you've  got  to  get  him  with  us.  The  young 


1 78  Chanting  Wheels 

idiot  probably  doesn't  at  all  realize  what  he  is  doing. 
Offer  him  anything.  Wait — "  he  paused  a  moment 
— "maybe  you'd  better  let  me  handle  him  entirely." 

Mengles  sighed  relief.  "I  wish  you  would,"  he 
stated  with  rare  sincerity.  "He's  over  my  head." 

In  the  auditorium  two  men  still  remained  beside 
Raleigh.  Culhane,  responding  to  Raleigh's  invita 
tion  of  the  morning,  had  bound  the  white  collar  of 
gentility  about  his  red  and  muscular  neck,  and  had 
listened  open-mouthed  through  Raleigh's  rehearsal. 
At  first  a  little  conscious  of  the  presence  of  their 
foreman,  the  men  had  promptly  forgotten  him  as 
the  spell  of  group-expression  grew  upon  them,  until 
Culhane  marvelled  at  the  different  beings  who  stood 
before  him — men  whom  he  would  have  never  recog 
nized  as  the  stolid,  impenetrable  lumps  who  func 
tioned  as  so  much  power  in  his  department.  This 
rans formation  the  Celtic  cell  in  Pat's  brain  registered 
keenly,  and  he  wondered. 

McGill  also  lingered,  his  grey  eyes  resting  affec 
tionately  on  Raleigh,  who  with  an  "Excuse  me  a 
minute,  boys,"  had  seized  a  manuscript  and  was 
jotting  down  notes  from  the  rehearsal.  McGill 
watched  him  a  moment,  then  turned  to  Culhane. 

"Some  boy,  ain't  he?"  he  murmured  softly,  draw 
ing  out  a  crumpled  package  of  cigarettes  and  proffer 
ing  it.  Culhane  shook  his  head,  and  produced  a  cigar 
with  the  dignity  that  all  smokers  of  the  weed  affect 
toward  the  flippancy  of  cigarettes,  and  bit  off  the  end 
absently.  Raleigh,  finishing  his  notes  with  a  flourish, 
turned  on  the  piano  bench  and  faced  them. 


Rehearsals  i?9 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  ?"  he  asked  Culhane. 

The  Irishman's  blue  eyes  snapped. 

"I  think  it's  swell,"  he  voiced  emphatically.  "But 
what  gets  my  goat  is  this — how  do  you  get  all  that 
out  of  a  bunch  of  Bohunks  that  I've  been  worryin' 
about  for  six  months — I  mean — all  these  furriners. 
I  never  paid  no  attention  to  'em  'cept  to  wonder  how 
soon  they'd  hold  a  Bolshy-vikey  meetin'  to  blow  the 
place  up." 

Raleigh  creased  a  paper  slowly,  looking  at  the 
foreman  with  a  faint  smile. 

"They're  all  so  damned  human,  Pat"  he  answered. 
"They  may  seem  stupid  to  you — they  don't  think  as 
much  as  Americans,  I  guess,  but  most  of  them  feel 
a  lot  more.  And,  because  they've  got  a  hundred 
years  of  tradition  and  folk-music  and  superstition 
back  of  them  where  we  have  one,  they're  intuitively 
musical — they  'get'  music  as  a  dog  gets  smells. 
Deep,  deep  down  inside  them  lives  an  instinct  built 
through  centuries  of  a  time  when  there  were  no 
books,  and  men's  stories  were  sung  from  father  to 
son — an  instinct  that  sings,  and  that  has  gathered  all 
the  sadness  of  old  dark  times  long  ago  into  its  sing 
ing — what's  the  matter?" 

For  Pat  had  brought  his  fist  down  thump  on  his 
knee,  and  an  internal  struggling  manifest  through 
Raleigh's  dreamy  speech  burst  out  of  him.  The 
caste  of  his  peasant  Irish  ancestry  spoke  as  he  leaned 
toward  Raleigh. 

"It  may  be  none  o'  my  damn  business,  but  I  got 
to  get  this  out  of  my  system"  he  said  gruffly.  "You 


i8o  Chanting  Wheels 

talk  like  a  guy  in  a  book.  You  look  like  one  of  the 
big  bosses — and  talk  sort  of  like  them,  too.  What 
are  the  likes  of  you  doin'  in  my  shop — and  what 
are  you  doin'  all  this — this  music  stuff  for — with 
these  furriners?  If  that's  your  game,  why  ain't  you 
studyin'  it  in  a  night  school?  Why  all  this?"  He 
leaned  back,  suddenly  abashed. 

Raleigh  stared  at  him  a  moment,  then  laughed. 

"Good,  Pat.  Right  enough.  I  don't  wonder  it 
seems  a  waste  of  time  to  you.  Well — I'll  try  to  ex 
plain.  I'm  in  your  shop  because  I  needed  money, 
wanted  a  change  of  living,  and  thought  that  I  could 
get  both  by  doing  this.  As  to  the  music — "  he 
rubbed  his  hand  backward  through  his  hair.  "I 
don't  know  that  I  can  explain " 

"I'd  like  to  know  about  that,  too.  You're  always 
talking  stuff  to  Semanyov  and  Giovanni  way  over 
my  head."  This  from  Freddy. 

Raleigh  nodded,  turning  to  Culhane.  "Pat,"  he 
said,  "you  spoke  of  my  going  to  a  night  school  of 
music.  This  is  my  night  school — these  men  and 
their  folk-music."  He  spoke  slowly,  assuming  as 
much  as  possible  the  point  of  view  of  his  listeners. 
"You  know  how  high-brow  music  sounds — no  tune, 
nothing  to  keep  time  for?" 

Both  men  nodded  vaguely. 

"Well,  you  know  how  things  like  'Annie  Laurie' 
or  'Kentucky  Home'  or  'Wearin'  O'  the  Green'  make 
you  feel  funny?" 

Pat  nodded,  this  time  with  emphasis.  "Like  you 
was  goin'  to  laugh  and  cry  all  at  once  inside." 


Rehearsals  181 

"Exactly!  Now,  if  you  get  together  the  folk 
songs  of  any  people  from  niggers  in  Virginia  to 
Russians  by  the  Volga,  you'll  find  they've  all  got  just 
that  quality,  of  making  you  want  to  cry  and  laugh. 
Well — ."  He  paused,  groping  for  terms  familiar 
to  Pat  and  Fred.  They  were  waiting  quietly.  Then 
he  turned  to  Pat. 

"Pat,  suppose  you  had  never  seen  a  Hydraulic 
press,  never  even  heard  of  one,  and  somebody  stuck 
ten  different  models  of  'em  up  in  front  of  you,  and 
told  you  to  find  what  made  them  all  work,  what 
would  you  do  ?" 

"Why,  I'd  look  'em  over,  I  spose,  and  find  they  all 
run  on  the  hydraulic  principle,  even  if  they  did  have 
different  valves  and  chambers  or  a  different  pressure 
surface." 

"All  right.  Suppose  somebody  told  you  to  build 
a  press  of  your  own,  but  different  from  any  of 
them." 

"Take  the  best  features  of  all  of  'em  and  build  it 
on  the  principle  o'  hydrostatic  pressure." 

"Right!  Well,  this  is  what  I  am  trying  to  do. 
Music  that  amounts  to  anything,  must  have  some 
thing  in  it  that  makes  you  feel  things  when  you  hear 
it,  like  the  folk-songs.  Now,  I've  gotten  lots  of 
different  kinds  of  folk-songs  together,  like  the  differ 
ent  models  of  your  presses.  One  has  .one  kind  of 
valve,  you  say;  another,  some  different  sort.  Well, 
a  Finnish  folk-song  sounds  entirely  different  from  a 
south  England  one.  They  are  as  different  as  a  press 
that  turns  out  a  brake-band  and  one  that  turns  out  a 


1 82  Chanting  Wheels 

wagon-body.  But  they've  all  got  something  in  them 
that  makes  you  feel,  just  as  both  presses  work  on  the 
hydrostatic  principle.  I  want  to  find  the  principle 
back  of  the  folk-songs,  because  I  want  to  use  it  in 
building  my  press — in  writing  music  that  will  get  in 
people's  hearts." 

He  leaned  back,  a  little  breathless. 

"Oh!  I  get  you  now,"  cried  Freddy.  "That  was 
what  you  meant  by  the  'old  modes'  you  said  were 
in  that  Polish  junk  Sapinski  was  singing  to  you?" 

"Yes.    It  is  the " 

Culhane  interrupted.    "You  written  any  yet  ?" 

"Yes — lots.  But  nothing  trying  to  use  the  prin 
ciple  of  folk-music  except  one."  He  hesitated,  but 
the  temptation  to  bare  his  musical  soul  was  too  great, 
even  to  understanding  as  limited  as  that  of  Pat  and 
Fred.  They  were  evidently  interested,  at  least. 
Raleigh  lit  another  cigarette,  and  continued. 

"You  see,  some  of  these  tunes  are  thousands  of 
years  old.  Most  of  them  mean  certain  things.  And 
at  the  time  they  originated,  the  people  believed  that 
the  music  actually  had  power — that  if  you  sang  or 
heard  a  certain  kind  of  tune  long  enough,  it  would 
get  you  as  the  snake  charmer  gets  the  snake.  For 
instance,  the  priests  in  India  sang,  and  still  sing, 
certain  chants  to  the  people  coming  to  the  temple  to 
be  cured,  believing  that  the  music  has  a  definite  effect 
on  the  sick  people  coming  for  help.  Specific  scales 
like  this  were  called  'modes'." 

Pat  tilted  an  amused  chin.  "You  mean  to  tell  me 
that  if  Father  O' Sullivan  and  a  bunch  more  of  him 


Rehearsals  183 

stood  up  in  front  of  me  and  sang  tunes,  it  would 
make  me  get  well,  if  I  had  the  itch?"  he  demanded. 

Raleigh  exploded.  "Well — not  exactly — the  itch. 
But  if  you  felt  sick  in  your  mind,  and  blue,  a  good 
tune  would  certainly  cheer  you  up." 

Pat  was  thinking,  slowly,  and  aloud.  "Well,  look 
here.  Suppose  somebody  had  a  spite  on  you,  some  o' 
these  old  birds  with  this  here  powerful  music " 

"Ah,"  Raleigh  wriggled  joyfully  to  his  subject. 
"Black  magic.  There  was  music  of  that  sort.  They 
put  spells  on  people  with  it,  and  sometimes  killed 
them,  under  proper  conditions." 

"Ah,  hell,"  scoffed  Freddy,  stretching  his  big  arms 
wide.  "You  don't  believe  that,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  know."  Raleigh  stared  out  across  the 
darkness  of  the  auditorium,  a  far-away  look  making 
his  merry  face  grave  as  a  Buddha  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  swung  suddenly  to  the  piano  and  began  to 
play. 

Only  a  few  low  chords,  repeating  a  harsh  theme, 
but  rising  slowly  in  pitch  and  volume,  till  the  audi 
torium  was  throbbing  with  the  monotone  of  the 
fierce  repetition.  It  was  old — old.  Raleigh  played 
on  till  the  sobbing  insistent  rhythm  spun  in  the  heads 
of  the  two  men,  and  they  shifted  uneasily  in  their 
chairs.  Then  he  increased  the  time,  and  lifted  the 
theme  into  a  fiercer  harmony.  Pat  turned  to  Fred, 
uneasily. 

"Wish  he'd  stop  that  damn  thing,"  he  growled 
under  his  breath.  "It  fair  gives  me  the  creeps." 
Raleigh  heard,  and  crashed  to  an  abrupt  finish.  The 


1 84  Chanting  Wheels 

two  regarded  him  silently,  their  faces  strangely 
childlike.  Pat  presently  spoke.  "What — what  is 
that  thing?" 

"Devil-dance  used  in  part  of  the  Kali  cult  in 
Bengal.  Now  listen." 

He  played  again,  with  the  strong,  marching 
rhythm  of  giant  feet,  sturdy  and  happy.  The  theme 
was  simple  as  an  elemental  force,  and  had  all  the 
oneness  of  big  stretches  of  plain,  of  a  body  of  water, 
of  a  rugged  mountain.  Supporting  it  lay  a  rude 
harmony,  which  broadened  and  grew  rich  and  warm 
as  the  thing  went  on.  Pat  began  to  tap  his  toe  and 
tilt  his  head,  and  McGill,  after  rumbling  an  under 
tone  accompaniment,  burst  out  in  his  big  baritone. 

"We're  gathered  in  from  all  the  earth 
From  North  and  East  and  South  and  West 
We  play  the  game  and  hit  the  trail 
But  making  steel  we  do  the  best. 

"And  all  of  us  are  hard  to  beat 
At  any  job  you  take  us  to — 
And  most  of  us  are  tough  to  heat — 
And  stand  a  lot  you  rake  us  through. 

"From  crane  to  car,  the  shops  all  show  it, 
We  stick  together  everywhere, 
We're  damn  fine  fellows,  and  we  know  it, 
We  play  the  game,  and  play  it  square." 

He  wound  up  with  a  crashing  chord,  and  swung 
to  Pat,  to  see  his  face  alight. 


Rehearsals  185 

"That's  some  tune !    Where'd  you  get  that  ?" 

"What  does  it  make  you  think  of?" 

"Oh — I  don't  know — like  a  football  game — I 
want  to  get  up  and  yell — 'Stick  together  boys — 
we're  a  hell  of  a  fine  bunch ! ' 

Raleigh  started.  "As  close  as  that,"  he  murmured 
to  himself.  To  Pat 

"Then  maybe  you'd  like  to  know  that  it's  based  on 
an  old  mode  in  a  hymn  to  Apollo,  and  was  chanted 
by  the  priests  of  Delphi  three  thousands  of  years  ago 
as  a  charm  to  make  the  worshippers  loyal  to  Apollo." 

Pat  gathered  himself  together  and  put  a  hand  to 
his  sleeked  head.  "Come  on  Freddy,"  he  said 
weakly,  heaving  to  his  feet,  "I've  had  about  all  I  can 
stand  for  awhile."  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Raleigh, 
sobering.  "Good-night,  kid.  You  sure  win." 

Half  way  up  the  sloping  aisle,  Pat  turned  back, 
his  grin  illuminating  the  darkness. 

"Say  kid,"  he  called  "what's  the  name  of  this 
here  old  music  o'  yours?" 

"The  Hyperdorian  Mode.    Why?" 

"Oh,  nuthin'.  I  was  goin'  to  name  a  new  press 
I'm  designin'  after  it,  but  if  the  Patent  office  ever 
heard  of  that,  they'd  classify  it  as  a  foldin*  corset. 
'Night." 


CHAPTER    XVI 

APPASSIONATO 

ELEANOR  awaited  the  approach  of  five  o'clock 
with  something  akin  to  stage-fright.  She  had 
maneuvered  the  banishment  of  her  mother.  She 
paced  the  living  room  in  the  firelight  with  hurried 
steps  that  took  her  from  the  piano  to  the  long  seat 
before  the  fireplace.  She  made  no  attempt  to  con 
ceal  the  fact  that  the  sudden  meeting  with  Bob  had 
stirred  her  out  of  the  suave  coverings  that  she  had 
all  her  life  moved  in. 

She  dropped  upon  the  seat  by  the  fire,  and  realized 
with  dismay  that  the  restlessness  that  had  worried 
her  on  her  return  from  France  was  due  not  so  much 
to  the  sheltered  une  vent  fulness  of  her  life  as  to  a 
vivid  incident  that  had  never  wholly  been  banished ; 
that  her  friends  bored  her  because  she  unconsciously 
had  been  comparing  them  to  the  man  at  the  center 
of  that  incident.  Pictures  floated  before  her,  obscur 
ing  the  warm  beauty  of  the  room — a  broken  ambul 
ance,  fortunately  empty,  stranded  on  a  black  and 
windy  road — a  sudden  checked  clatter  of  horses' 
hoofs,  and  a  kind  voice  out  of  the  darkness.  They 
dared  risk  no  lights. 

186 


Appassionato  187 

"I'll  take  you  in"  the  voice  had  said.  "Come 
here."  She  had  felt  her  way  to  the  horse,  touched 
a  man's  leg.  "Now."  The  voice  had  come  close  to 
her  ear,  and  before  she  could  move,  two  powerful 
arms  had  swung  her  up,  and  she  was  perched  in 
front  of  him.  One  arm  was  round  her,  and  she 
was  suddenly  very  comforted  by  its  tense  thickness. 
She  had  talked  for  a  time  and  gone  to  sleep.  A  chin 
occasionally  brushed  her  hair.  She  had  awakened 
to  a  feeling  of  warm,  firm  lips  against  her  own,  and 
realized  that  she  was  being  kissed.  She  remembered 
settling  a  little  closer  to  the  broad  chest  under  the 
rough  uniform,  and  of  thinking  how  little  it  really 
mattered,  and  of  kissing  him  back  with  a  tired, 
dreamy  unconcern  that  now,  in  the  propriety  of  her 
drawing-room,  sent  her  restlessly  to  the  window. 

Other  pictures  came — of  a  hospital,  of  long  con 
valescent  walks  with  a  wounded  man  under  the  thin 
green  sunshine  of  spring.  Somehow  they  had  never 
talked  a  great  deal.  It  was  as  if  she  had  taken  up  a 
completely  new  personality  for  some  ten  days  or  two 
weeks,  and  when  he  went  away  again,  laid  it  down 
with  the  bewilderment  of  one  waking  from  sleep. 
Everything  about  it  was  isolated  from  the  rest  of  her 
life. 

Then  she  heard  the  bell  ring  and  the  door  open, 
and  flew  to  the  mirror  to  pat  her  hair.  She  sat  down 
composedly  enough  in  front  of  the  tip-table. 

He  came  in  quietly,  and  stood  for  a  moment  at 
the  door  as  Raleigh  had  done.  She  rose. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you"  she  said  glibly.    He  mut- 


1 88  Chanting  Wheels 

tered  something,  took  her  hand,  dropped  it,  stared 
round,  then  back  at  her.  Her  tongue  went  on.  "You 
can't  fancy  how  surprised  I  was  to  see  you  Sunday ; 
I  didn't  know" — for  the  life  of  her  she  couldn't  go 
on.  She  tried  desperately  for  the  easy  camaraderie 
of  France,  but  the  steady  deep  glow  coming  into  his 
eyes  made  her  clumsy.  He  stood,  a  little  awkwardly, 
his  hands  hanging  at  his  sides.  She  went  on  rapidly. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  you  lived  here? 
You  merely  said  the  west.  And — and  it  was  so 
hurried,  your  going." 

Bob  looked  at  her  and  spoke  with  grave  directness. 
"I  knew  you  were  here"  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "I — 
I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  again." 

Eleanor's  eyes  widened  in  surprise,  then  suddenly 
she  understood.  Thanks  to  an  industrious  society 
editor,  almost  anyone  might  know  that  she  was 
"here" — she  read  his  mind,  and  looked  down  uncom 
fortably.  She  tried  to  keep  upon  the  sure  ground  of 
superficialities. 

"How  do  you  take  tea?"  she  asked.  "Lemon  or 
cream  ?" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  dismissal.    "Oh,  any  way." 

Eleanor  rushed  on.  "Wasn't  it  curious,  your 
brother  knowing  Dan  Raleigh — and  to  think  I've 
seen  your  sister  twice,  without  knowing.  Of  course, 
the  name — I  wondered — "  She  stopped  helplessly, 
his  strain  snaring  her  words. 

"There's  lots  of  McGills"  he  muttered,  holding 
his  teacup  helplessly,  and  gazing  into  it  with  unvary 
ing  stare.  The  silence  grew  intolerable.  Eleanor 


Appassionato  189 

felt  herself  flushing.  It  had  been  a  great  mistake. 
She  should  never  have  asked  him. 

"Did  you  have  a  good  time  coasting  Sunday?" 
she  asked  finally.  Then  she  remembered  the  incident 
of  the  quarry  and  the  runaway  sled,  and  fell  on  it 
with  eagerness.  "But  of  course — I  had  forgotten 
for  a  minute — it  was  very  nearly  a  tragedy,  wasn't 
it?  Mrs.  Wycherly  told  me  after  you  left.  How 
lucky  that  Mr.  Raleigh  knew  how  to  ski.  By  the 
way,  have  you  heard  him  play  ?  It  is  charming — he 
played  some  of  his  own  things  for  me  the  other 
evening,  and  I  loved  them — I  think  he  is  the  most 
talented  person  I  have  ever  known." 

Bob  deliberately  but  quickly  put  down  his  teacup, 
and  circled  the  table  to  her  in  a  stride.  He  bent 
over  her,  and  his  hands  seized  her  wrists. 

"Are  you  in  love  with  Dan?"  he  said. 

The  suddenness  of  it  scattered  her  light  speech  to 
atoms.  She  could  only  stare  at  him,  the  blood 
mounting  to  her  forehead.  His  hands  tightened  till 
they  hurt. 

"Are  you?"  He  repeated,  his  voice  losing  some 
thing  of  its  steadiness. 

Her  amazement  was  in  her  voice.  "No"  she 
replied,  startled  into  spontaneous  utterance.  "I'd 
never  even  thought  of  it." 

He  sighed  with  relief,  and  released  her  hands. 
He  drew  a  chair  close  to  her,  his  awkwardness  sud 
denly  gone  from  him.  He  took  her  hands  again. 
Eleanor,  dismayed  at  the  tumult  going  on  inside  her 
self,  leaned  back  against  the  tip-table  and  tried  to 


190  Chanting  Wheels 

think.  This  was  not  at  all  what  she  had  planned. 
She  had  thought  to  be  kind, — oh  very  kind,  and  to 
talk  about  industrial  conditions  and  not  allow  for 
one  moment  the  atmosphere  of  France  to  creep  in  on 
them.  She  realized  that  it  had  come,  that  it  hung 
around  them  like  a  cloud,  blotting  out  the  protecting 
stability  of  her  surroundings.  He  was  speaking  in 
deep  hurried  tones  unlike  his  usual  slow  grave 
utterance. 

"I  can't  help  it.  You've  got  to  hear  me.  You 
know  I  love  you,  Eleanor." 

A  silence. 

"Look  at  me." 

She  raised  her  eyes  then,  a  little  frightened  by  the 
hungry  look  in  the  man's  face.  It  was  set  like  white 
marble.  She  noticed  the  bunched  muscles  at  the 
jaws,  the  fine-cut  mouth  above  the  hard  chin.  His 
hands  trembled.  The  blaze  in  his  eyes  burned  away 
his  last  reserve. 

"Eleanor — do  you  care — do  you  care?" 

Her  cool  poise,  the  gift  of  her  years  of  training, 
of  her  assured,  competent  inheritance,  dissolved 
before  the  singing  tempest  of  stark  physical  emotion, 
and  it  was  only  with  faint  dismay  that  she  realized 
that  she  wanted  his  arms  round  her,  longed  for  the 
sweet  stinging  contact  of  his  face  against  her  own, 
that  she  ached  for  him  with  a  force  that  slowly  drew 
them  together  .  .  .  She  wrenched  her  hands 
violently  away,  rose  suddenly,  and  turned  to  the 
window,  her  hand  at  her  throat.  He  followed  in 
stantly.  She  held  out  her  hands. 


Appassionato  191 

"Don't  touch  me"  came  in  a  low  voice  that  she 
heard  with  surprise  as  her  own.  "Please  Bob — I 
want  to  think — it's — you — I — " 

"Eleanor!     You  do  care." 

She  looked  unseeingly  at  the  lights  across  the  park 
for  a  moment.  The  wave  of  emotion  by  its  very 
violence  had  brought  its  swift  passing.  She  faced 
him  steadily.  She  had  forgotten  how  very  white  his 
forehead  was,  and  the  contrast  of  the  black  brows 
and  light  hair,  and  the  curious  deep  indentation  of 
the  eyes. 

"Well?" 

She  smiled  faintly.  His  set  look  somehow  brought 
the  boyishness  of  him  only  closer  to  the  surface. 
She  met  his  eyes  very  seriously. 

"I — I  don't  know,  Bob.  I  am  very  fond  of  you. 
I  know  that  isn't  enough." 

"You  seemed  more  than  fond  of  me — then." 

Eleanor  flushed.  "That  was  different"  she  re 
turned  softly,  looking  down.  She  missed  the  bitter 
ness  of  his  suddenly  sharpened  glance. 

"Different?"  His  voice  was  hard.  "Why  dif 
ferent?  Because  we  both  had  on  uniforms,  I 
suppose,  and  you  didn't  know  I'd  worked  in  a 
shop—" 

"Bob!"  Eleanor's  head  had  drawn  back  as  if  he 
had  struck  her.  She  eyed  him  indignantly,  and  was 
not  even  conscious,  then,  of  a  guilty  twinge.  "You 
know  that's  not  what  I  meant  in  the  least."  She 
stopped  a  moment  to  arrange  her  words,  and  went 
on  more  slowly.  "It  was  different  because,  in 


192  Chanting  Wheels 

France,  we  none  of  us  thought — we  just  felt.  After 
we  had  been  there  for  any  time  at  all,  it  seemed 
useless  and  futile  to  think.  I  couldn't — and  didn't. 
And — "  she  hesitated,  then  brought  out  bravely, 
with  a  rush — "you  have  a  tremendous  physical 
attraction  for  me,  Bob — more  than  any  man  I  ever 
knew.  And  now" — she  broke  off  again,  staring  into 
the  fire,  and  went  on  quickly,  in  a  low  tone,  "Love 
must  be  more  than  that." 

She  saw  the  astonishment  in  his  face,  and  hurried 
on.  "You  really  don't  know  me  at  all,  Bob.  You 
might  not  like  me  at  all  if  you  did.  You  might 
find  I " 

He  cut  in  brusquely.  It  rather  shocked  him  to 
hear  a  girl  discuss  emotions  like  that.  It  made  him 
uneasy.  He  brushed  his  hand  over  his  face  as  if  to 
iclear  it  of  cobwebs. 

"I  don't  care  anything  about  all  that.  I  love  you 
— you  must  tell  me  if  it's  any  good."  There  was 
pain  in  his  eyes. 

She  sighed.  The  tangle  was  getting  worse.  The 
more  she  tried  to  think  it  through,  the  deeper  into 
introspective  quicksands  she  sank.  And  under  it  all, 
lay  a  continual  tugging  at  her  to  cast  thought  to  the 
winds  and  yield  completely. 

"Oh  dear — I  don't  know"  she  cried.  "I'm  trying 
to  tell  you — you'll  have  to  wait,  Bob,  until  I — " 

She  stopped  before  the  sudden  radiance  of  his 
face. 

"That's  all  I  want  to  know"  he  told  her  quietly, 
with  a  smile.  "If  there  isn't  anyone  else,  and  you're 


Appassionato  193 

— you're  not  sure  you  don't  care — why,  you've  been 
at  the  bottom  of  everything  I've  done  for  two  years, 
and  I  didn't  even  know  whether  you  were  engaged  or 
not." 

The  woman  does  not  live  who  can  see  a  man  wear 
ing  her  kerchief  in  his  casque  without  something  of 
the  thrill  of  Guinevere.  Eleanor  looked  at  him  as 
she  stood  in  the  firelight,  his  square,  chiselled  face, 
his  athlete's  body,  his  earnestness  that  enhanced  the 
boy-quality  to  her.  Impulsively  she  stepped  to  him. 

"You  dear  boy"  she  said  very  softly.  She  stood 
on  tiptoe  suddenly,  and  kissed  his  forehead.  He  did 
not  move,  but  drew  a  little  breath,  and  his  eyes 
lighted  swiftly. 

"Now  you  must  go"  she  said  a  little  confusedly. 
"I  must  dress  for  dinner.  Come  again  Saturday — 
no,  I  have  a  theatre  party  then — come  next  Monday 
night—" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  silently,  kissed  her  long, 
then  hurried  from  the  room. 

Eleanor  stood  until  the  closing  of  the  front  door 
came  to  her.  Then,  almost  as  in  a  dream,  moved 
slowly  across  the  room  and  sank  down  on  an  otto 
man.  She  sat  for  a  long  time  in  the  semi-darkness. 
She  did  not  think — her  senses  had  drowned  her 
mind. 

Lucia,  the  maid  came  in,  started  at  seeing  her, 
stared,  then  came  forward  and  began  clearing  the 
tea-table.  The  clink  of  cups  and  the  low  chime  of 
the  silver  roused  her  slowly.  She  looked  round  at 
the  room  as  if  she  had  never  seen  it  before.  Gradu- 


194  Chanting  Wheels 

ally  the  accustomed  atmosphere  of  it  wrapped  her; 
the  wine  singing  in  her  veins  turned  back  to  blood. 
The  deep,  harmonic  beauty  of  the  room,  the  soft 
lines  gleaming  from  polished  wood  in  the  dying 
firelight,  the  shimmer  of  crystal  at  the  candelabra; 
they  were  all  sedatives.  Lucia  came  in  again  and 
carried  out  the  tea-table.  Eleanor's  mind,  the  cool 
poised  mind  that  weighed  and  counselled,  began  to 
stir  again.  Occasionally  its  working  relapsed  as 
something  stronger  rushed  over  it — the  feeling  of 
Bob's  swift  embrace,  and  the  frightening,  stinging 
touch  of  his  face  .  .  . 

Lucia  came  in  and  stood  before  her.  "Miss 
Eleanor  .  .  ."  then  again.  "Miss  Eleanor?" 

Eleanor  started  and  looked  up.  "Yes,  Lucia — 
what  is  it?" 

"Peter  wants  to  know  whether  you  want  Mrs. 
Grayson's  electric  or  your  sedan  tomorrow  morning, 
Miss  Eleanor.  He  says  there's  something  wrong 
with  the  limousine." 

Eleanor  listened,  with  a  mixture  of  reluctance  and 
relief  growing  on  her  face.  Lucia  looked  at  her 
curiously,  for  there  was  an  expression  that  the  maid, 
since  the  days  of  Eleanor's  babyhood,  had  never  seen 
there. 

"The  sedan  will  do,  Lucia.  I  want  to  get  away 
from  the  house  by  nine-thirty." 

She  moved  slowly  upstairs,  to  find  Helene,  her 
own  maid,  putting  bath  salts  in  the  steaming  water. 
Her  evening  dress  lay  ready ;  a  fire  burned  brightly 
at  the  hearth ;  the  bowl  of  golden  roses  David  Harde 


Appassionato  195 

always  kept  full  from  his  own  conservatory  glowed 
on  her  table.  It  was  as  if  threads,  invisible,  soft 
threads,  sprang  from  all  these  things  and  began  to 
weave  round  her  a  web  of  comfort,  with  a  restful 
sense  of  accustomed  authority.  She  began  taking 
off  her  clothes,  slowly. 

Her  telephone  rang;  she  took  it  from  its  pink 
doll  container.  Vermylia's  high,  pleasant  voice  came 
to  her. 

"Hello — Eleanor?  That  you?  Dinner  at  eight 
instead  of  eight-thirty.  I  thought  I'd  let  you  know 
in  time.  It  was  my  mistake." 

It  was  all  part  of  the  same  spell.  She  answered 
like  one  in  a  play.  "Thanks  Vernon.  The  flowers 
are  lovely — you're  a  dear  to  send  them."  Her  voice 
was  so  gentle  that  Vermylia,  at  the  other  end  of  the 
phone,  sat  up  excitedly.  "I'll  be  all  ready  for  you, 
Vernon — I'm  wearing  the  dress  you  like  to  go 
with  the  flowers.  At  present  I'm  too  undressed 
to  talk  to  any  man  without  embarrassment.  Good 
bye." 

All  through  the  long  dinner,  in  which  Vernon 
Vermylia  tried  to  hold  her  hand  and  was  allowed  to 
with  such  an  amused  smile  that  he  dropped  it  like 
a  scorpion,  she  tried  to  visualize  Bob  beside  her.  She 
thought  how  clean  and  square  his  face  would  look 
above  the  dinner  coat.  She  tried  to  imagine  him 
bowing  to  fat  Emelie  Breede,  as  Harry  Duncan  was 
doing,  or  alternately  amusing  the  two  dull  Malcomb 
girls. 

Her  imagination  was  much  too  independent  and 


196  Chanting  Wheels 

severe  an  entity  to  be  thus  ruled.  It  chagrined  her 
with  an  awkward,  silent  man,  who  seemed  too  big 
for  his  clothes.  It  appalled  her  with  strong  hands 
doing  amazing  things  with  the  parade  formation  of 
knives  and  forks,  and  (worse)  desperately  consci 
ous  of  them.  These  pictures  she  indignantly 
banished,  but  they  slipped  back,  slyly. 

Norman  Boyd,  who  disliked  her  because  she  had 
pointedly  left  him  in  the  middle  of  a  dance  once, 
noticed  her  unusual  quietness. 

"Dreaming  of  the  socialist  state,  Eleanor?"  he 
challenged  across  the  table  in  a  pleasant  drawl. 
Eleanor's  activities  furnished  great  amusement  to 
her  friends — to  this  particular  crowd  of  them,  at 
least.  Boyd's  voice  attracted  listeners,  as  it  always 
did — heads  turned  in  his  direction,  smiles  in 
Eleanor's.  She  gave  him  back  calmly. 

"If  I  was,  Norman,  it  was  to  cast  you  in  the  role 
of  town  crier." 

This  brought  laughter  at  Boyd's  expense.  He 
leaned  over  and  scrutinized  Eleanor  carefully. 

"No,  I  was  wrong"  he  declared.  "It  is  not  the 
social  state  you're  building,  Eleanor."  He  had  half 
the  table  now,  and  turned  to  them  impressively.  "I 
see  it  in  her  eyes!  She's  found  her  soul-mate  in  a 
coal-heaver." 

Eleanor  felt  herself  go  suddenly  red,  and  her 
thoughts  ran  about  for  words  like  chicken  after 
millet.  Boyd  instantly  followed  up. 

"Yes — a  great,  strong,  beautiful  coal-heaver,  with 
bows  and  arrows  tattooed  on  his  mighty  arm,  a  smut 


Appassionato  197 

on  his  otherwise  perfect  nose — bearing  himself  with 
all  the  grace  and  dignity  of  a  Percheron." 

The  table  was  listening  in  delight  now,  if  not  in 
sympathy — Norman  Boyd's  tongue  seldom  loosed 
itself  against  a  person  as  armored  as  Eleanor.  The 
post-eighteenth-amendment  cocktails  had  warmed 
him  to  carelessness.  He  leaned  still  further  over  the 
table. 

"Confess,  Eleanor,  confess — tell  us  all  about  the 
noble  embodiment  of  American  Labor."  He  waved 
his  fork  amid  amused  cries  of  "Hear,  hear." 

Eleanor  looked  at  him  steadily,  with  a  gentle  smile. 
She  longed,  for  one  passionate  instant,  for  Bob,  to 
smash  the  red  cynical  face  with  its  hard  little  lines. 
He  grinned  a  little  alcoholically  at  her.  She  allowed 
a  short  silence  to  form.  Then  her  words  fell  like 
snow-flakes  on  a  hot  griddle. 

"In  love  with  a  coal-heaver,  Norman?  Perhaps 
I  am.  But — if  I  am,  I've  picked  one  that  can  sup 
port  me — and  himself." 

"I  never  read  about  so  many  robberies  as  lately" 
clattered  the  hostess  hastily.  Gabbling  sprang  up 
swiftly,  almost  hysterically  round  the  table.  Norman 
Boyd  had  gone  white  with  anger.  His  fame  as  a 
parasite  rivalled  Burns's  "wee  beastie."  Eleanor 
picked  up  the  conversation  with  Vermylia. 

As  the  table  broke  up  and  the  women  drifted  into 
the  other  room,  Marian  Allen  fastened  herself  to 
Eleanor.  Marian  was  five  feet  high ;  a  Pomeranian 
of  a  woman,  with  an  appalling  sense  of  humor  back 
of  her  solemn  little  face. 


198  Chanting  Wheels 

"I've  thought  of  something  too  marvellous"  she 
said.  "Norman  Boyd's  little  quip  for  you  put  it 
into  my  head.  Why  don't  you  bring  one  of  your 
workmen  to  a  dinner?  I'll  give  it." 

Eleanor    turned    an    outraged    face    on    her. 
"Marian,  you're  mad — why  it  would  be  cruel  as — " 
suddenly  she  changed,  and  a  smile  broke  out  merrily. 
"Any  sort  of  a  workman?" 

Marian  nodded  rapidly.  "Yes  any  sort.  Prefer 
ably  big  and  rather  tough.  You  must  know  someone 
you  can  get — it  would  be  gorgeous." 

"Will  you  be  nice  to  him  ?" 

"My  dear,  if  he  is  in  the  least  attractive,  I  shall 
make  love  to  him.  Now  then,  will  you?" 

"Yes.     I'll  call  you  up  about  it." 

When  she  reached  home,  she  found  in  her  room  a 
flat  package  addressed  to  her,  with  "by  hand"  in  one 
corner.  The  handwriting  she  did  not  know,  but  in 
stantly  guessed;  a  powerful,  slanted  hand,  with 
tightly  closed  a's  and  o's.  She  opened  the  wrapping 
paper  to  find  a  single  sheet  of  writing  and  a 
mounted  photograph.  The  writing  was  brief. 

"I  never  felt  I  could  send  you  this  before.  Does 
it  mean  anything  to  you? 

"Bob." 

She  picked  up  the  photograph,  and  dropped  sud 
denly  into  a  chair.  It  was  an  enlargement  of  a 
snap-shot  someone  had  taken  of  them  together,  on 
one  of  the  convalescent  walks  through  the  breath- 


Appassionato  199 

less  beauty  of  the  spring.  Behind,  a  low  grey  wall 
— farther  back  three  poplars,  melancholy  ghosts  of 
trees,  stole  across  the  picture.  Above  them,  a  sheen 
of  new  leaves  glimmered  mistily. 

The  smell  of  earth  rushed  to  her  as  she  looked, 
and  the  rustle  of  the  poplar  leaves,  like  myriad  fairy 
palms  rubbing  dryly  together,  and  the  bittersweet, 
acrid  smell  of  smoke  from  a  peasant  cottage  near. 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  throat,  and  through  the 
haze  of  memories  looked  at  the  man  in  the  picture, 
at  herself — a  strange,  trim,  debonair  self,  a  slim 
pagan  in  khaki.  Her  face  was  thinner,  the  eyes 
bigger.  His  she  could  not  see  plainly  (though  the 
photograph  was  clear  enough),  for  round  it  was  cast 
the  high,  sweet,  slightly  mad  romance  which  to 
feminine  America  hung  like  an  aura  about  the 
uniform  of  the  A.  E.  F. 

She  looked  long  at  the  picture,  then,  with  a  little 
sigh,  set  it  up  on  her  desk,  and,  crossing  the  room 
absently,  buried  her  nose  in  the  golden  roses  as  she 
thoughtfully  kicked  off  first  one  slipper  and  then  the 
other. 


CHAPTER     XVII 

BARRIERS 

AS  the  day  drew  near  for  the  concert,  Raleigh 
began  living  in  a  continual  performance  of 
rehearsals,  re-writing  of  parts,  coaching  of  stolid 
men,  cajoling,  keeping  up  a  certain  flagging  interest 
that  is  inevitable  where  forty  amateurs  are  con 
cerned.  And  it  took  the  tact  of  a  Gladstone. 

"You  would  scream  with  delight  at  one  of  my 
rehearsals"  he  wrote  to  Harold  Van  Doran,  whom 
he  had  left  industriously  painting  in  New  York. 
"It's  a  sort  of  potpourri  thing  I'm  trying  to  do. 
They  adore  minstrels,  so  that  is  most  of  it,  but  I 
have  managed  to  insinuate  a  straight  quartet  or  two. 
The  other  night  in  the  middle  of  'Deep  River'  by 
the  picked  quartet,  Giovanni,  the  second  tenor,  seized 
his  forelock  and  screamed,  jumped  up  and  down, 
and  began  spouting  Italian  like  one  of  his  greater 
prototypes  at  the  Metropolitan.  I  finally  got  him 
calmed  enough  to  ask  what  was  the  matter.  He 
pointed  a  quivering  finger  at  Moran,  an  Irishman 
with  a  good  bass  voice.  'I  canna  seeg  wit  heem'  he 
howled.  'He  make  a  da  face — like  a  dees'.  Moran's 

200 


Barriers  201 

choleric  blue  eye  began  to  blaze,  and  I  came  between 
them  just  in  time.  He  does  look  rather  like  a 
dyspeptic  goldfish  when  he  sings.  It's  glorious  fun, 
but  I  shall  retire  to  a  rest  cure  when  it's  over  .  .  . 
You  inquire  with  unseemly  eagerness,  it  appears  to 
me,  about  Peggy  and  Eleanor;  Eleanor  is  the  sort 
you  know — charming,  intelligent,  very  lovely  look 
ing.  We've  been  together  a  great  deal  lately.  She's 
stimulating  and  has  a  fine  mind,  and  yet  I  sometimes 
feel  she's  too — too — I  don't  know  what.  I  miss 
something.  Or  I  think  I  do.  You  know  my  mania 
for  'understanding'  people.  That's  where  Peggy 
comes  in.  She  is  intuitive  as  a  little  prophetess,  and 
has  a  basic  love  of  music  that's  very  real,  and  that 
Eleanor,  with  all  her  mind,  hasn't.  However,  Peggy 
hasn't  a  lot  that  Eleanor  has.  Oh  damn — I'm  get 
ting  more  and  more  in  a  muddle  about  them.  Prob 
ably  you'll  hear  that  I  have  eloped  with  one  and  am 
being  sued  for  breach  of  promise  by  the  other.  Give 
my  best  to  the  bunch.  Tell  Chapin  Luther  I'm  re 
verting  to  type,  have  gained  fifteen  pounds  of 
muscles;  and  affect  chewing  tobacco  and  a  truck- 
driver  haircut.  It  will  doubtless  send  him  scut 
tling  to  the  first  train  out  here  to  see  the  phe 
nomena  .  .  ." 

The  day  before  the  concert,  Raleigh  hurried  out  of 
the  shop  at  three  fifteen,  his  mind  industriously 
purusing  the  rhythm  of  his  Shop  Chanty,  and  render 
ing  him  deaf  to  a  light  voice  that  called  his  name. 
Then  a  clear  whistle  sounded  above  the  voices  of  the 
men.  He  registered  the  melody  rather  absently, 


202  Chanting  Wheels 

then  his  head  flung  up.  "Who  in  the  devil  would 
know  that  tune?" 

He  saw  Eleanor  Grayson  leaning  from  the 
window  of  her  car,  drawn  to  the  curb,  and  hurried  to 
her  with  a  delighted  smile. 

"You  must  have  been  centuries  away"  she  said. 
"I've  been  calling  with  the  regularity  of  a  cuckoo. 
Please  get  in — we're  going  to  begin  the  decorating 
of  the  Welfare  Building  for  tomorrow  night.  Mr. 
Parker  has  asked  me  to  help,  and  almost  put  me  in 
charge  of  it.  I  want  your  advice.  I've  gotten  some 
of  the  girls  from  the  office — it's  the  sort  of  thing 
everyone  should  feel  that  they've  done  something 
with,  you  know,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  nice  to 
ask  Miss  McGill.  Do  you  know  where  she  lives?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

Eleanor  raised  an  eyebrow  at  him.  "  'Of  course' 
sounds  as  if  you  had  made  it  Mecca,  Dan." 

Raleigh  blushed.  "What  nonsense — naturally 
I've  been  out  there,  knowing  Fred  so  well.  They're 
a  great  bunch  together.  I'm  very  fond  of  them — 
Mrs.  McGill  is  a  bit  of  the  heroic  age — a  large  bit, 
I  might  say — transplanted." 

"How  do  you  like  the  other  brother,  Bob?" 

Raleigh  glanced  sidewise  at  her.  The  tone  was 
curiously  impersonal.  He  grinned. 

"Yes,  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about  that,  young  lady. 
I  saw  him  holding  your  hand  at  the  Wycherlys'." 
Eleanor  had  turned  a  bright  pink  "Now  fess  up — 
what  'ave  you  been  doing?" 

Eleanor  laughed  silverly.     "I  met  him  in  France, 


Barriers  203 

you  know.  I  hadn't  seen  him  since.  I  didn't  even 
know  he  was  living  here." 

"Oh."  He  settled  back.  "I  see.  He's  a  curious 
chap — very  strong,  very  compressed,  some  way.  I'm 
fond  of  him.  We've  seen  something  of  each  other 
since  that  Sunday  we  nearly  went  over  the  cliff. 
We  began  with  violent  dislike — he  is  really  the  type 
that  bores  me,  usually — very  practical,  very  common 
sense,  very  industrious,  and  not  much  sense  of 
humor.  You  know  ?"  He  was  talking  lightly  out  of 
the  window,  and  missed  the  twitch  of  Eleanor's 
gloved  hand  on  the  wheel,  and  the  sudden  compres 
sion  of  her  lips.  He  went  on  musingly.  "And  yet, 
in  spite  of  that,  I  like  him.  He  has  magnetism  of 
a  sort  that  is  intensely  strong.  I  think  he  likes  me, 
too;  though  originally  I'm  sure  he  considered  me  a 
vile  and  arrant  butterfly  masquerading  insolently  as 
an  ant.  How  did  you  meet  him  abroad  ?" 

She  told  him,  with  important  omissions. 

Raleigh  directed  her  to  the  McGill  house.  She 
regarded  it  with  a  curious  interest.  It  looked  like 
thousands  of  other  houses,  brown  and  frame  and  of 
an  architecture  that  deposits  a  dreadful  burden  upon 
the  dwellers  within  if  they  would  achieve  any  sort 
of  individuality  about  their  home.  Somehow  the 
little  house  had  achieved  it.  It  glowed  with  a  kind 
of  snug  comfort. 

Peggy  came  flying  out,  at  Raleigh's  vociferous 
summons.  Eleanor  greeted  her  smilingly. 

"We  want  you  to  help  decorate  the  hall  with  us 
for  the  concert.  You  can  come,  can't  you?  We're 


204  Chanting  Wheels 

going  downtown  to  get  materials,  and  then  going  to 
run  back  to  the  Welfare  Building." 

"Sure,"  replied  Peggy,  eagerly.  She  ran  back  for 
her  hat  and  coat.  Bob  came  round  the  corner  of  the 
house  in  a  big  sweater  that  emphasized  his  tapering 
torso  and  wide  shoulders,  and  made  his  square  face 
seem  squarer  still.  Raleigh,  leaning  outside  the 
motor,  waved  him  over.  He  hesitated,  then  came 
forward. 

His  face  flushed  when  he  saw  Eleanor,  and 
Raleigh,  watching,  saw  his  eyes  deepen.  Raleigh 
lifted  mental  eyebrows. 

This  time  Eleanor,  protected  by  a  third  person, 
was  her  own  self. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do  Bob?"  They  shook  hands. 
"Can't  you  come  with  us?  We're  going  to  decorate 
the  Welfare  Building  for  Dan's  concert.  Why  don't 
you  come  too?" 

Bob's  face  lighted — then  he  looked  at  Eleanor,  as 
she  sat  at  the  wheel,  easy,  smiling,  and  his  face  set 
subtly. 

"No,"  he  said  quietly.  "I  can't,  I'm  afraid. 
There's  some  things  I  have  to  do  here.  Anyhow, 
I'd  be  no  good  for  that  sort  of  thing.  Dan's  the  boy 
for  that"  he  smiled  at  Raleigh  and  laid  an  arm 
across  his  shoulder — a  rare  demonstrativeness  for 
the  taciturn  Bob.  Raleigh  protested. 

"Nonsense — come  along.  I'll  make  you  do  all 
sorts  of  things,  or  rather,  Eleanor  will — she's  the 
boss.  Why  don't  you?" 

Bob  looked  again  at  the  slim  figure  at  the  wheel, 


Barriers  205 

and  glanced  at  the  low  car,  with  its  special  body  and 
smooth,  gray  velvet  cushioning,  He  shook  his 
head.  Eleanor  was  watching  him,  conscious  again 
of  the  curious  inward  agitation  he  always  brought 
her. 

Peggy  danced  out  of  the  house,  and  Raleigh  hur 
ried  to  her.  Bob  bent  quickly  toward  Eleanor. 

"Will  you  go  to  the  theatre  with  me  some  night 
this  week?"  he  asked.  He  had  seen  her  just  once 
since  their  first  afternoon  at  her  house — a  once  of 
restraint  and  difficulty  so  keen  that  both  sighed  with 
relief  when  the  evening  had  been  over.  Yet  he  knew 
he  must  see  her. 

Eleanor  thought  swiftly.  Of  course,  it  made  no 
difference,  really,  what  her  friends  thought  .  .  . 
she  saw  a  picture  of  Norman  Boyd's  delighted  face 
meeting  them  in  the  foyer  .  .  .  She  kicked  her 
imagination  and  her  conventionality  vehemently. 

"Of  course — I'd  love  to"  she  said.  "Any  night 
you  like.  Just  call  me  up."  She  smiled  upon  him 
with  a  warmth  that  sent  his  heart  pounding  into  his 
throat.  Peggy  and  Raleigh  climbed  chattering  into 
the  machine.  With  a  swift  smile,  she  shot  the  car 
into  gear  and  raced  off  with  a  speed  that  was  almost 
abruptness.  Bob  remained  standing  on  the  curb 
where  they  had  left  him,  bathed  still  in  the  ecstatic 
warmth  of  Eleanor's  smile. 

Peggy  was  looking  at  Eleanor  with  astonished 
eyes.  "Why — I  didn't  know  that  you  knew  Bob" 
she  said. 

"Didn't  you?     We  met  in  France,  when  he  was 


2o6  Chanting  Wheels 

convalescing  .  .  .  will  you  take  the  wheel,  Dan  ? 
I've  been  going  all  day,  and  I'm  tired." 

They  fell  into  a  discussion  of  decorative  plans, 
Peggy  listening  appreciatively,  a  little  bewildered. 

"I  think  crepe  paper  streamers  and  colored  sheets 
of  paper  will  solve  it"  said  Raleigh,  directing  his 
attention  unconsciously  to  Eleanor.  "I  did  a  big 
bare  studio  that  way  once.  The  Welfare  Building 
is  a  barn  of  a  place." 

"Blue  and  pink  would  be  good  colors"  said  Peggy 
helpfully. 

Eleanor  made  a  little  moue  to  herself.  "I'm  afraid 
they  would  not  be  strong  enough,  would  they?"  she 
asked. 

"Oh  no — never  do."  This  from  Raleigh.  He 
shut  his  eyes  in  an  agony  of  concentration.  The  car 
leaped,  and  grazed  a  pushcart.  Both  girls  shrieked. 
Eleanor  grabbed  the  wheel. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  if  you  must  shut  your  eyes, 
don't  do  it  when  you're  turning  a  corner"  cried 
Eleanor  indignantly.  Raleigh  smiled  imperturbably. 

"If  we  get  purple  and  blue  and  apple  green,  with 
a  little  crimson  and  orange — and  black — lots  of  it — 
black  paper  and  gold  anc  black  paint,  that'll  fix  it 
beautifully.  Will  you  drop  me  at  the  Y  ?  I  want  to 
get  same  pictures  of  that  studio  r  decorated.  Also 
a  bath." 

"You're  still  at  the  Y?"  asked  Eleanor,  a  twinkle 
in  her  eye. 

"Oh  Lord,  yes.  Stokes  crawled  down  to  one  of 
my  rehearsals  the  other  day  and  held  my  hand  for 


Barriers  207 

fifteen  minutes  afterward.  Do  tell  Peggy — it  would 
amuse  her.  See  you  in  half  an  hour."  He  dashed 
into  the  building. 

They  found  him  waiting  at  the  door  with  a  small, 
pale,  and  obviously  embarrassed  lad.  Raleigh  led 
him  forward. 

"Found  Smetana — thought  he'd  be  useful — we 
might  gild  him  and  put  him  up  for  a  cupid  over  the 
stage."  He  introduced.. 

Smetana  lifted  his  great  eyes  to  Eleanor's  lovely 
face,  and  grovelled,  instantly,  as  had  his  ancestors 
to  certain  ladies  on  white  horses,  with  tall  coiffes 
and  misty  veils.  He  was  speechless. 

Raleigh  shoved  him  in  good  naturedly.  "Can  we 
make  it  ?  Peggy,  you'll  have  to  sit  on  Eleanor's  lap, 
if  I'm  to  drive.  Smetana  can  squeeze  into  the  corner, 
between  the  packages."  They  sped  out  to  the  shop 
with  the  darkness  falling  upon  them. 

"Too  bad  not  to  have  daylight  to  work  by"  said 
Peggy. 

"No — it's  better  this  way.  We  want  our  effect 
for  artificial  light,  you  know."  They  pulled  up  be 
fore  the  Welfare  Building,  offensively  new,  and, 
laden  with  packages,  marched  in.  He  led  the  way 
to  the  great  hall  on  the  second  floor.  This  was  a 
huge  room,  with  a  rather  fine  simplicity.  Broad  win 
dows  the  height  of  a  man's  shoulder  from  the  floor 
flooded  it  with  sunlight  in  daytime.  Round  posts  in 
a  wide  double  row  divided  it  lengthwise,  as  into 
nave  and  side-aisles.  At  one  end,  the  stage,  at  the 
other,  small  dressing  rooms.  The  floor  was  polished 


208  Chanting  Wheels 

wood  and  the  general  tinting  a  neutral  lemon  gray 
of  rough  plaster. 

They  found  Parker  and  half  a  dozen  girls  stand 
ing  in  the  exact  middle  of  the  hall,  and  looking  round 
it.  They  had  their  arms  full  of  Fourth-of-July  bunt 
ing.  Parker  hurried  to  Eleanor. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Grayson?  Find  Raleigh, 
did  you?  That's  right."  He  was  voluble  and  per 
spiring.  "I  thought  that  it  would  be  a  fine  plan  to 
run  borders  of  pennants,  er — the  felt  ones,  you  know, 
from  pillar  to  pillar,  and  round  the  top  of  the  wall 
in  scallops,  perhaps?" 

"That  would  be  pretty"  said  Peggy,  a  little  doubt 
fully. 

Raleigh  waited.  ("Pennants  in  this  place  will 
make  it  look  exactly  like  flypaper — or  a  polka-dot 
dress"  he  thought. ) 

Eleanor  smiled  soothingly  at  him;  smooth  sen 
tences  flowed  round  him;  Raleigh's  pictures  were 
produced,  and  presently  Parker  somewhat  reluctantly 
relinquished  the  pennants. 

There  followed  a  wild  half  hour  of  cutting,  fitting, 
of  rough  measurements  and  gauged  distances.  Smet- 
ana  was  sent  scuttling  for  tall  stepladders.  The 
girls  cut  paper  crepe  under  Eleanor's  direction  into 
ordained  shapes,  and  fitted  colored  paper  to 
gether.  Chaos  grew,  and  the  room  looked  more 
and  more  like  a  battlefield  of  cubism.  An  hour 
passed. 

Peggy  stood  before  Raleigh,  handing  him  black 
cardboard  and  orange  crepe  paper.  He  was  perched 


Barriers  209 

atop  a  tall  ladder,  coatless  and  perspiring,  his  long 
legs  dangling.  He  looked  down  absently. 

"How  do  you  make  those  Strozzi  lanterns?"  He 
asked.  "I've  forgotten  the  shape." 

"Those  what  ?"  asked  Peggy.  "I  don't  know  what 
you  mean." 

He  rumpled  his  hair.  "Oh,  never  mind.  Eleanor 
— "  he  called  across  the  hall  to  her — "do  you  remem 
ber  the  Strozzi  lanterns?" 

She  came  over.  "Oh,  you  can't  make  those,  Dan. 
They're  much  too  intricate.  Don't  you  remember — 
eightsided  things  with  tall  spikes  bending  out  at  the 
top  of  them."  She  looked  up  at  the  wall  bracket  of 
three  electric  lights  meditatively.  "Wait  a  moment 
— do  you  remember  those  huge  sconces  in  the 
Cathedral  of  Pisa — black,  I  think,  with  gold  on 
them?" 

"Oh  rather !  I  was  there  when  they  were  having 
a  funeral.  It  was  marvellous." 

Eleanor  shivered.  "I'll  never  forget  the  Misera- 
cordia.  One  night  they  went  past  our  pension — I 
think  someone  had  died  just  down  the  street — and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  for  months  I  dreamed  of  black- 
robed  masked  men  and  flaming  torches." 

"It's  the  most  Italian  thing  in  Italy"  declared 
Raleigh.  He  looked  down  eagerly,  his  arms  full  of 
forgotten  decorations.  "Were  you  in  Rome  the  time 
that  .  .  ." 

Eleanor  leaned  against  the  stepladder,  nodding, 
her  face  vivid,  looking  up  at  him.  They  roamed  the 
slopes  of  the  Janiculum  together,  and  climbed  the  de- 

14 


210  Chanting  Wheels 

caying  ramparts  of  the  Coliseum.  Peggy  looked 
from  one  to  the  other,  listening,  her  eyes  resting 
longest  on  Raleigh's  eager  face ;  every  plane  of  it  was 
becoming  an  intimately  familiar  thing  to  her;  the 
curves  of  the  spare  chin  and  jaw;  the  very  deep  in 
dentation  of  the  eyes;  the  "Michaelangelo's  bar"  of 
fullness  about  the  eyebrows,  as  it  is  known  to  sculp 
tors — the  bar  that  means  sense-keeness,  and  poten 
tial  artistry. 

They  talked  on  and  on.  Peggy  watched  and 
listened  for  a  time,  then  her  smile  faded  slowly,  and 
it  was  with  a  very  thoughtful  mien  that  she  crossed 
the  hall  and  began  cutting  paper  with  Smetana.  He 
looked  at  her  vaguely  and  smiled.  Peggy  did  not 
see  it. 

The  work  went  on,  and  presently  some  sort  of 
order  began  to  emerge  from  the  chaos.  It  was 
Raleigh's  plan  to  make  one  of  each  unit  of  design 
that  he  planned  to  use,  so  that  next  day,  when  he  was 
at  work,  they  could  be  duplicated  by  the  girls. 

He  had  massed  blue,  purple  and  green  crepe  paper 
at  the  top  of  one  of  the  pillars  to  give  it  the  elaborate, 
fruited  and  garlanded  capital  of  the  Renaissance. 
Gilt  paint  and  a  touch  of  orange  completed  the  illu 
sion.  Then  he  "marbled"  the  column  with  gold  and 
black  paint  and  a  feather  snatched  secretly  from 
Eleanor's  hat,  and  recognized  with  shrieks  of  indig 
nation.  The  wall  brackets,  by  the  use  of  flaring  black 
cardboard  designs  and  crimson  crepe  paper,  turned 
into  long  triple  sconces  bearing  torch  flames. 

He  had  already  attached  to  the  ceiling  round  one 


Barriers  211 

of  the  big  cluster  lights  the  strips  that  were  to  be 
Venetian  lanterns,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
Parker,  who  had,  after  twenty  minutes  of  benevolent 
uselessness,  departed,  came  prancing  forward. 
Raleigh  nearly  fell  off  the  ladder,  for  behind  him 
was  David  Harde.  Eleanor  saw  him  too,  and 
glanced  quickly  at  Raleigh.  He  put  his  fingers  to 
his  lips,  and  promptly  hid  his  head  inside  the  circle 
of  papers,  dangling  from  the  ceiling. 

Peggy,  sitting  on  the  floor  cutting  a  sconce,  had 
her  back  to  the  door.  She  had  been  lecturing  Smet- 
ana,  who  had  grown  excited  about  the  decoration. 

"Why  dey  do  all  dees  ?"  he  had  asked.  "Why  dey 
not  geev  more  pay?"  Not  for  nothing  had  Mengles, 
strolling  through  the  craneyard,  poured  words  into 
the  boy's  impressionable  mind.  "All  dees — spen'  for 
nutting " 

"Nonsense"  retorted  Peggy  rather  sharply.  "Just 
stop  and  think,  will  you?  This  won't  come  to  $600 
food  and  all,  when  it's  all  done,  likely.  Just  you  fig 
ure  out  what  that  would  amount  to  split  up  among 
the  pay  of  three  thousand  men.  It  wouldn't  buy  you 
chewing  gum,  any  of  you,  and  this " 

She  was  struck  to  silence  by  the  change  in  the 
other's  face.  The  childlike  petulance  had  died  out 
of  it,  leaving  it  for  an  instant  blank  and  dead.  Then 
the  eyes  began  to  burn  dully,  and  something  stirred 
behind  them.  He  stared  over  Peggy's  shoulder,  with 
such  a  stamp  of  fear  and  hatred  that  she  whirled. 
There  was  only  Parker  coming  in,  followed  by  a  tall, 
springy  man  with  white  hair  and  a  youngish  face. 


212  Chanting  Wheels 

She  turned  back  to  Smetana.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
red  fires  leaped  at  the  back  of  his  eyes.  They  were 
slightly  glazed. 

She  shook  his  shoulder. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  she  cried  in  a 
low  tone,  her  own  face  white.  There  was  a 
strangeness  about  him  as  evil  as  poison  for  a 
moment. 

The  boy  started,  winced,  and  looked  at  her.  His 
eyes  focused  back  slowly  to  nearly  normal,  but 
continued  to  flicker  like  a  dying  fire.  He  stumbled 
to  his  feet,  and  went  toward  the  door  like  a  blind 
man,  shuffling  uncertainly,  but  never  taking  his  eyes 
from  the  group  around  the  ladder.  Parker  was  just 
saying  "Here's  Mr.  Harde,  Miss  Grayson."  Smetana 
looked  for  a  long  moment  at  the  back  of  the  tall 
figure.  There  was  no  mistake — it  was  the  man  of 
the  motor  car.  He  slipped  out  of  the  hall. 

David  had  tweaked  the  back  of  Eleanor's  hair. 
She  whirled  with  surprise,  and  her  face  lighted. 

"Why  David — playing  about  like  this?  Why 
aren't  you  in  the  office  at  work,  young  man?"  She 
always  twitted  him  about  his  devotion  to  his  desk. 
He  loved  it. 

"Playing?  Don't  you  think  I  ever  eat,  young 
woman?  Do  you  know  that  it's  a  quarter  of  six?" 
His  eyes  travelled  up  the  ladder  to  the  legs  atop  them. 
The  head  and  shoulders  were  veiled  by  a  rain  of 
colored  crepe  paper. 

"Who's  your  interior  decorator  ?"  he  asked  Parker 
aside. 


Barriers  213 

Parker  beamed,  and  assumed  the  proprietary  ex 
pression  of  the  teacher  with  a  prize  pupil. 

"That's  Raleigh,  that  I  told  you  of.  I  want  you 
to  meet  him  and  see  what  you  think  of  him." 

David  nodded  gravely.  He  grinned  faintly  with 
the  corner  of  his  mouth  away  from  Parker  at 
Eleanor.  Parker  called — a  little  pompously. 

"Oh  Raleigh — come  down  a  minute,  will  you?" 

Raleigh's  voice  floated  down  from  the  bower  of 
paper. 

"Just  a  moment,  Mr.  Parker.  I'm  trying  to  de 
cide  whether  orange  or  crimson  paper  would  be  best 
to  go  round  the  bulbs.  The  whole  history  of  decora 
tive  art  is  called  into  judgment." 

David  exploded  into  a  violent  cough. 

Parker's  tone  crisped  with  impatience.  He  knew 
how  well  David  Harde  liked  to  be  kept  waiting. 

"That's  all  right — that's  all  right — you  can  fix 
that  later.  Come  here." 

"I  cannot  fix  it  later.  The  mood  is  broken,"  in 
toned  the  voice  tragically.  "However,  I  yield  to 
the  rod  of  authority."  The  legs  agitated  themselves, 
and  Raleigh's  face,  innocent  eyed,  appeared  between 
the  streamers  of  paper.  He  looked  at  Harde  in 
naive  surprise. 

"Oh  I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  know  someone 
was  waiting  for  me."  He  swarmed  down  the  lad 
der.  The  scandalized  Parker  introduced  him  as 
"Raleigh,  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you,  Mr.  Harde." 

Raleigh's  eyes  were  dancing.  "I  beg  pardon? 
The  name?  I  didn't  get  the  name." 


214  Chanting  Wheels 

"This  is  Mr.  Harde."  Parker's  voice  struggled 
between  exasperation  and  reverence. 

"Oh  yes.  Very  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Harde." 
They  shook  hands  gravely.  Raleigh's  composure 
was,  of  the  two,  perhaps  more  perfect. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  asked  David 
Harde,  in  the  impersonal,  not  unkind  tone  he  kept 
for  employees.  It  passed  far  beneath  Raleigh's 
blithe  head. 

"About  two  and  one  half  months.  How  long  have 
you?" 

Parker's  eyes  popped  open  like  a  china  doll's,  and 
his  whole  fringe  of  hair  rose  in  horror. 

"Mr.  Harde  is  the  president  of  the  company"  he 
got  out,  trying  not  to  choke,  while  Eleanor  turned 
away  hastily,  and  even  Harde's  poker  face  turned  a 
shade  pinker. 

"Oh" — Raleigh  stared  at  him  with  delight.  "Are 
you  really  ?  Then  you  must  like  it  awfully,  don't  you 
— sir?"  he  added  as  an  afterthought. 

David  preserved  his  gravity  by  an  effort  that 
nearly  rent  his  diaphram  in  two. 

"Yes,  I  like  it."  He  had  a  wholesome  fear  of 
Raleigh's  humor,  and  galloped  on  rather  hastily. 
"This  is  going  to  look  fine,  but  you'll  never  get  it 
through  tonight." 

Raleigh  continued  to  stare  at  him  like  a  fascinated 
child.  "No — I  know  that,  sir.  I'm  making  a  model 
of  each  one.  Then  Miss  Grayson  and  her  cohort  can 
finish  the  rest  tomorrow." 

David  Harde  looked  appreciatively  at  the  pillar's 


Barriers  215 

paper  capital,  where  the  shades  of  color  cunningly 
presented  a  fine  illusion  of  deep  bas-relief.  "You'd 
better  take  tomorrow  off  and  go  ahead  with  it  your 
self"  he  said. 

Raleigh  bowed  like  a  butler,  and  folded  his  hands 
in  front  of  him.  "Yes,  sir"  he  said.  "Will  I  get 
paid  as  usual,  sir?" 

David  choked.  "Oh  yes — tell  Culhane  you're  on 
special  duty."  He  turned  to  Eleanor.  "Just  remem 
ber  that  you  are  going  to  the  theatre  with  me  to 
night"  he  said,  with  a  twinkle,  "and  don't  stay  here 
too  late."  He  nodded  and  strode  down  the  room, 
satellited  by  Parker. 

Raleigh  spoke  loudly  and  quickly  to  Eleanor. 

"Isn't  he  nice !  He  can't  be  the  president,  though. 
He  hasn't  the  presidential  shape.  They  always  look 
like  Zeppelins."  He  saw  Parker's  bald  spot  turn 
purple.  The  door  closed  upon  them.  Raleigh  leaned 
against  the  ladder  and  roared. 

"Come  along,  Dan,"  said  Eleanor,  finally.  "I 
must  go  home  right  away.  I  really  forgot  about  the 
theatre  with  David,  the  old  dear." 

When  they  left,  Smetana  had  vanished.  Raleigh 
hurried  round  the  building,  bawling  his  name.  "Lit 
tle  rascal"  he  said.  "I  told  him  we'd  take  him 
home." 

Peggy  went  up  to  him.  "Dan"  she  said  seriously, 
"I  don't  like  that  boy.  I'm  afraid  of  him." 

Raleigh's  eyebrows  went  up. 

"Afraid?  Why?  He's  a  pathetic  little  creature, 
but  certainly  nothing  to  terrify  even  a  violet." 


216  Chanting  Wheels 

Peggy  shook  her  head.  She  told  him  of  what  had 
happened.  "His  eyes  were  awful — it  seemed  just 
like  there  was  something  in  them — I  don't  know  how 
to  say  it — something  that  wasn't  him  at  all." 

Raleigh  sobered  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a  chuckle, 
as  the  memory  of  Smetana's  expression  the  first  day 
he  had  seen  him,  returned  to  his  mind. 

"I  know  what  you  mean"  he  returned  slowly. 
"He's  a  highstrung,  sensitive  little  soul,  and  has 
suffered  terribly  over  the  death  of  that  cousin  of  his. 
He's  introspective  and  morbid — but  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of." 

Peggy  remained  unconvinced.  "You  didn't  see 
him  as  I  did"  she  returned.  "I'm  glad  he  likes  you." 
She  shivered. 

They  joined  Eleanor  at  the  door.  She  turned  to 
look  back  at  the  hall. 

"Really — it's  going  to  look  stunning.  You've 
caught  the  Renaissance  air.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised 
to  see  Petrarch  walk  out  on  the  stage,  laurel  wreath 
and  all,  and  begin  reciting  a  sonnet." 

"Or  Benvenuto  Cellini  claim  the  silver  work  on 
the  radiators,  I  suppose." 

She  laughed  appreciatively.  "Don't  you  love  the 
place  in  the  autobiography  where  he  sneaks  out  of 
the  Cardinal's  window?" 

"Isn't  it  delicious?  And  the  awful  affairs  with 
the  wife  of  .  .  ." 

A  wistful  look  crept  round  Peggy's  merry  mouth. 
It  deepened  as  they  entered  the  motor,  and  when 
Raleigh  tucked  the  robe  about  her  with  a  more  than 


Barriers  217 

brotherly  pat,  she  found  an  absurd  lump  in  her 
throat.  She  looked  at  Eleanor  and  Raleigh,  and 
suddenly  saw  them  on  one  side  of  a  tremendous 
gulf,  and  herself  on  the  other  side.  As  if  to  vocalize 
her  thought,  Raleigh  spoke  dreamily  out  of  a  little 
silence. 

"Eleanor — aren't  those  lights,  with  their  halo  of 
mist,  like  a  Monet  picture?  Which  one  is  it,  that 
has  such  extraordinary  blues  and  purples — of  a 
bridge  at  twilight  .  .  ." 

Peggy  pressed  her  cheek  against  the  cold  glass 
of  the  motor,  and  in  its  discreet  darkness  cried 
silently. 


Smetana  had  waited  till  David  Harde  went  out. 
He  had  shrunk  into  the  darkness  by  the  door  as  he 
passed  with  Parker.  The  men  did  not  even  see  him. 
In  that  moment,  when  David  had  passed  so  close 
that  he  could  see  the  vigorous  strength  of  his  black 
eyebrows  and  the  lines  around  his  chin,  it  seemed 
to  Smetana  that  the  spinning  whir  of  his  mind  had 
risen  to  a  shriek  that  blasted  it  into  hot  silver,  a 
molton  blare  of  white  sound,  a  convergence  like  the 
sun  condensed  into  a  burning-glass ;  a  point  of  argent 
intensity  ...  It  filled  the  whole  world  with  light 
• — a  light  through  which  galloped  and  clattered  gigan 
tic  machines,  that  grew  small  and  whizzed  like  in 
candescent  flies  into  the  point  of  light  .  .  . 

He  found  himself  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.    He 


218  Chanting  Wheels 

walked  out  into  the  night,  tmseeingly.  There  was  a 
new  and  sudden  peace  that  he  gulped  in  with  gasps 
of  breath.  His  mind  no  longer  spun.  It  had  found 
its  centre. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SOWING  DISCORD 

THE  opening  night  of  the  Welfare  Building, 
though  successful  as  an  event,  failed  in  its 
deeper  purpose.  Too  many  men,  awkward  and 
starched  and  glazed  of  collar,  had  stood  about  the 
sides  of  the  floor  watching  the  dancing,  with  grim 
comments  little  meant  for  the  ears  they  eventually 
reached. 

"What  they  want  to  have  a  dance  hall  for?"  asked 
one,  a  sulky,  pale  youth,  with  the  eyes  and  mouth  of 
a  satyr.  "Nobuddy  wants  to  high-ball  out  to  this 
man's  place  to  dance." 

"Yeah — I'll  bet  they  make  a  hunk  o'  gold  off'n 
that  new  restaurant  downstairs,  too." 

"Why  don't  they  add  sumpin  onto  our  pay,  stead 
o'  puttin  up  this  dump?" 

A  slightly  older  man  joined  the  group — Mengles, 
of  the  smooth  chin  and  even  smoother  tongue. 
"Never  mind,  boys"  he  purred.  "We'll  be  asking 
anything  we  want  and  getting  it,  pretty  soon.  Just 
stick  around  and  watch,  that's  all — just  stick  around 
and  watch." 

219 


220  Chanting  Wheels 

Thus  Mengles,  agitator  in  parvuio. 

"Huh  ?    What  yer  mean  ?" 

Mengles  glanced  around.  "Tell  you  later,"  he 
said.  "But  if  you  hear  of  a  shop  meeting  some  day 
next  week,  don't  be  surprised."  He  walked  away, 
light  of  step,  smiling  and  nodding  here  and  there. 

But  these  currents,  deep  as  they  were,  quite  van 
ished  beneath  the  froth  of  the  evening.  The  concert 
scored  an  amazing  success.  It  was  a  complete  sur 
prise  to  most.  Raleigh,  keenly  guaging  his  very 
mixed  audience,  had  guided  the  program  from  the 
wild  extremes  of  farcical  minstrels  with  Gargantuan 
jests  and  slapstick  puns,  to  a  picked  quartet  doing  a 
group  of  old  folk-songs  that  left  the  hall  silent  for  a 
moment.  His  own  song  had  capped  a  growing  en 
thusiasm.  Cracked  out  by  forty  lusty,  well-trained 
voices,  gripping  with  the  stir  of  the  old  music, 
original,  but  "catchy"  to  a  degree,  it  finished 
off  the  program  to  a  tapping  of  feet  and  roars  of 
approval. 

Raleigh  became  the  hero  of  the  dance  that  fol 
lowed,  and  his  name  spread  broad-cast  through  the 
shops,  "Rosy  Raleigh — you  know,  the  big  good- 
lookin'  kid  with  the  smile.  Boy,  that  lad  can  jazz  a 
piano,  now  believe  me — yea,  that's  him — the  bird 
that  fought  Mulgully."  Men  hummed  snatches 
of  the  "Hot-press  Chanty"  and  envied  the  men  of 
the  hot-press. 

If  Raleigh  went  about  the  shop,  men  grinned  at 
him  who  would  have  laughed  three  months  before, 
because  they  now  respected  him  in  their  own  terms 


Sowing  Discord  221 

of  nerve,  and  admired  him  as  frankly  above  them  in 
certain  ways,  with  no  "airs"  about  it.  Thus  had 
certain  of  them  loved  their  officers.  And  so,  quite 
unaccountably,  the  stamp  of  permanency  was  put 
upon  Raleigh,  and  he  was  accepted  by  the  men  as  one 
of  those  who  naturally  will  go  ahead, — was  taken 
as  a  natural  leader — of  which  he  was  sublimely  un 
conscious.  When  Culhane  told  him  that  the  General 
Manager  wanted  to  speak  to  him,  he  wondered,  but 
went  directly  to  the  G.M.'s  office. 

Norton,  looking  him  up  and  down  from  behind 
cool,  light-rimmed  glasses,  offered  him  two  jobs — 
one  in  the  sales  department,  the  other  in  the  engin 
eering — his  choice  of  which  ever  end  of  the  game 
appealed  to  him. 

"You've  evidently  been  educated,"  he  said  sharply, 
boring  into  Raleigh's  smiling  calm  with  small  grey 
gimlet  eyes.  "And  you  can  get  right  along." 

Raleigh,  lounging  gracefully  in  his  wet  shirt,  the 
veins  on  his  arms  and  neck  tracing  a  gladiatorial 
pattern,  shook  his  head. 

"That's  very  kind  of  you,"  he  replied.  "But  I'd 
much  prefer  to  remain  where  I  am." 

Norton  stared.  "But  you  can't  do  that,"  he 
snapped,  "you've  got  too  much  intelligence.  We  can 
use  that  elsewhere,  and  put  another  man  with  much 
less  brain  at  your  work."  It  offended  Norton's  crisp 
tabulation  of  efficiency,  like  using  a  Toledo  blade 
to  pare  potatoes. 

"Don't  over-estimate  my  brain  because  I  speak 
correctly  and  know  a  Chopin  waltz  from  a  Sousa 


222  Chanting  Wheels 

march,  Mr.  Norton,"  smiled  Raleigh.  "I'm  much 
better  where  I  am." 

Norton  was  irritated.  "Haven't  you  any  ambi 
tion?  Don't  you  want  to  get  ahead?" 

"Not  in  your  way,  probably.  My  own  develop 
ment,  as  it  happens,  is  progressing  sufficiently — much 
better  than  it  could  possibly  do  over  sales  sheets  or 
blue  prints.  There  has  been  no  complaint  of  my 
work  in  the  shops,  I  think.  Moreover,  I  am  happy 
in  my  friends  there,  and  I  have  no  assurance  that 
such  would  be  true  elsewhere."  (It  flowed  with 
the  smoothness  of  olive  oil.) 

Norton  started,  and  stared.  Here  was  a  man,  ap 
parently,  in  whom  the  golden  sandals  of  preferment 
awakened  nothing  but  faint  repulsion.  He  felt  like 
Roberts,  Raleigh's  erstwhile  foreman,  when  Raleigh 
had  shaken  hands  with  him  the  first  morning. 
Things  like  this  just  were  not  done. 

Then  his  phone  rang,  and  he  turned  to  it  with  a 
curt  nod. 

"All  right — that's  all"  he  snapped.  Raleigh  bowed, 
a  trifle  exaggeratedly,  it  is  to  be  feared,  and  went  out. 
He  looked  down  at  his  muscle-rippled  arms  and 
swelling  chest;  he  thought  of  the  advance  he  had 
made  with  his  music,  of  McGill  and  his  warm  friend 
ship,  and  the  elemental  loyalty  it  stood  for,  and 
laughed.  Sales  sheets  and  white  collars,  and  playing 
the  deferential  gentleman,  if  need  arose,  to  someone 
he  despised !  He  realized  he  was  very  happy,  without 
quite  realizing  why. 

Raleigh  left  the  shop  that  evening  alone.    McGill 


Sowing  Discord  223 

was  on  night  shift,  and  none  of  his  particular  cronies 
seemed  about  when  he  stuffed  his  overalls  into  his 
locker  and  scrambled  into  street  clothes.  As  he 
swung  down  the  way  leading  to  the  trolley,  a 
tall  man  fell  into  step  casually  beside  him,  and 
spoke. 

"That  was  a  fine  concert  you  gave  the  other  night, 
Mr.  Raleigh.  Those  men  sang  splendidly." 

Raleigh  glanced  at  the  speaker  in  pleased  surprise. 
He  did  not  recognize  him — but  his  circle  of  acquain 
tances  in  the  huge  population  of  the  shops  was  com 
paratively  small. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "They  did  very  well.  Most 
of  them  are  foreigners,  you  know,  and  the  older 
nations  somehow  gift  most  of  their  children  with 
music." 

The  other  nodded  gravely.  "Been  long  in  the 
shops?" 

"About  three  months  now." 

"Like  it  pretty  well?" 

Raleigh  beamed.  "Oh,  I'm  crazy  about  it !  The 
work  isn't  hard,  once  you  get  used  to  it,  and  it  gives 
you  all  kinds  of  time  in  the  afternoon,  getting  off 
this  way  at  3  130.  And  I've  made  some  splendid 
friends  in  the  shops." 

"How  does  the  pay  suit  you?" 

The  question  rather  surprised  him.  Funny  old 
chap,  he  thought.  "Oh,  fine"  he  replied.  "I  feel 
rather  like  a  robber,  though"  he  added,  "when  I 
think  how  it  compares  to  the  salaries  of  college  pro 
fessors  and  newspaper  men  and  such.  And  I  hear 


224  Chanting  Wheels 

talk  about  a  strike  for  more,  and  a  recognition  of  the 
unions.  It's  absurd." 

Grabler's  eyes  narrowed.    Not  so  simple,  this. 

"Then  you're  not  for  having  the  unions  recog 
nized,  I  take  it?"  He  remarked  casually. 

"Not  much — when  it  would  mean  a  strike,  and 
the  men  as  contented  and  well  treated  as  they  are 
here.  It  seems  absolute  tyranny  to  me  to  have  a 
union  step  in,  raise  a  row,  and  tell  the  employers 
whom  they  can  hire  and  the  men  whom  they  can 
work  for.  Let  anyone  join  if  he  wants  to — that's  all 
right — but  why  force  men  to  ?"  He  checked  himself, 
remembering  his  uncle's  first  warning. 

"But  then — everyone  has  a  right  to  his  own  opin 
ion  on  those  things." 

("There's  no  doubt  about  yours,  my  young 
friend,"  thought  Grabler  grimly,  and  changed  his 
tack.) 

"Too  bad  more  people  can't  see  what  fine  chaps 
the  foreigners  are"  he  ventured,  as  they  drew  near 
the  crowd  waiting  for  a  car. 

Well  baited,  Raleigh  swallowed  hook  and  leader. 
He  flamed.  "Lord — I  get  crazy  about  that!"  he 
exclaimed,  laughing  frankly  at  his  own  enthusiasm. 
"They've  got  what  Americans  lack — feeling,  emo 
tions,  and  latent  artistic  capacity.  It  makes  me  mad 
all  over  to  hear  some  ignorant  fool  not  half  as  fine- 
strung  as  they  sneer  at  them  as  'wops'  and  'polaks' — 
as  if  Palestrina  wasn't  a  wop  and  Chopin  a 
polak." 

Grabler  nodded  in  feigned  understanding,  cleverly. 


Sowing  Discord  225 

"I  know.  Those  men  in  your  concert  are  all  fine 
fellows — all  leaders  of  their  own  countrymen,  too. 
You — they  seemed  to  like  you  very  much." 

Raleigh  expanded.  "They  do,  really,  I  think"  he 
confided  engagingly.  "I've  taken  the  trouble  to  get 
to  know  them,  and  I'm  very  fond  of  them.  They'd 
do  anything  for  me,  I  think." 

Abruptly  Grabler  focused.  "I  am  greatly  inter 
ested  in  the  foreign  question"  he  preferred  smoothly, 
"and  in  the  men  of  your  shop,  on  account  of  your 
concert.  Suppose  I  had  a  scheme  to  better  them, 
and  wanted  the  support  of  you  and  those  leaders  of 
yours — could  I  count  on  it?'" 

Raleigh  gazed  at  him  in  surprise,  and  for  the  first 
time  studied  him  carefully — the  clean  shaved  face, 
the  curiously  scarred  cheek — the  white  hair,  the 
graceful,  well-dressed  figure.  "Nice  old  philan 
thropist  in  disguise,  mingling  with  the  proletariat," 
he  thought  — and  yet — the  man's  eyes  were  not  those 
of  a  philanthropist. 

"Why  certainly"  he  said  aloud.  "What  can  I 
do?" 

Grabler  smiled  a  rare  smile.  "Nothing  yet.  But  I 
may  address  the  men  of  your  shop  some  day  soon, 
and  advocate  some  measures  of  interest  for  the  men 
— especially  the  foreigners.  I'd  like  you  to  pledge 
me  your  support,  and  that  of  your  crowd  when  the 
time  comes.  Can  I  count  on  it  ?" 

Raleigh  laughed.  "Makes  me  feel  like  a  combina 
tion  of  Sherlock  Holmes  and  Bernard  Shaw,"  he 
said,  "  but  you  can  count  on  us,  all  right,  if  it's  some- 
is 


226  Chanting  Wheels 

thing  good  for  the  foreigners.  May  I  ask  your 
name  ?" 

The  other  hesitated  only  an  instant.  "My  name  is 
Grabler,"  he  said  gravely.  Then,  as  the  trolley  came 
thundering  to  a  stop  and  the  men  began  piling  on, 
he  held  out  his  hand.  "Remember,  I'm  counting  on 
you  to  speak  to  your  men  and  have  them  predisposed 
to  meet  my  suggestions.  I  shall  address  one  of  the 
shop  meetings — probably  next  Thursday." 

Raleigh  nodded,  still  mystified,  but  was  drawn 
into  the  seething  eddy  of  grimy  men  struggling  to 
board  the  trolley  before  he  could  reply.  He  wedged 
to  a  place  on  the  platform,  intensely  interested,  won 
dering.  Perhaps  the  old  chap  was  going  to  donate 
a  night  school  for  foreigners,  and  was  going  to  lec 
ture  about  it  in  the  shops.  He  must  talk  it  up  to 
Mesanyov  and  the  rest  of  his  songsters,  he  thought. 
Then  he  fell  to  thinking  of  a  quartet  that  he  was 
framing,  and  promptly  forgot  the  old  philanthropist 
and  all  he  had  said. 

Grabler  watched  the  trolley  a  moment,  then  turned 
smiling,  back  to  wait  for  Mengles.  His  eyes  grew 
deep  for  a  moment,  then  he  laughed. 

"The  young  fool"  he  thought.  It  had  been  easier 
than  he  expected. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

TABLE-MANNERS 

ELEANOR  met  him  at  the  door ;  her  eyes  spark 
ling  above  her  fur.  They  climbed  into  the  wait 
ing  limousine  and  settled  back  with  mutual 
chuckles. 

"You  didn't  tell  me  much  about  this"  he  said  as 
they  swung  down  the  drive.  "I  gathered  that  I  was 
to  appear  in  the  role  of  the  Stalwart  Son  of  Toil. 
Shall  I  eat  with  my  knife  and  spit  into  the  fireplace?*' 

Eleanor  grimaced.  "I  think  the  former  will  be 
all  that  is  required,"  she  returned.  "But  you  can 
muddle  the  forks  and  say  'ain't'  to  your  heart's  con 
tent.  It's  going  to  be  a  gorgeous  party.  Every 
one  is  simply  crazy  with  curiosity  to  see  what  I  will 
produce." 

"What  in  the  world  started  it  all  ?" 

"Norman  Boyd  teased  me  the  other  night  about 
my  work,  and  it  gave  Marian  Allen  the  idea  that  it 
would  be  a  great  lark  if  I  brought  one  of  the  men 
from  the  shop  to  the  next  dinner.  So  she  arranged 
the  party." 

"I've  a  package  of  chiclets"  he  announced.  "I 
227 


228  Chanting  Wheels 

shall  chew  gum  in  seven  different  rhythms,  one  for 
every  course  of  the  dinner." 

They  entered  the  great  house  a  little  late ;  most  of 
the  guests  had  already  arrived.  At  the  door  Eleanor 
whispered,  "You  might  start  the  atmosphere  in  the 
men's  room.  I'll  meet  you  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs." 

The  door  opened,  a  solemn  butler  bowed  them  in. 

"I'll  start  it  right  now"  he  whispered  back.  He 
seized  the  butler's  hand  and  shook  it  effusively. 

"Awful  glad  to  see  you"  he  said  genially.  Eleanor 
choked  and  fled  to  the  stairs.  The  butler  gasped. 
Then  he  stiffened.  Really — it  was  a  little  too  much 
— before  prohibition  people  often  shook  his  hands 
at  parting — but  to  come  to  a  dinner  already  primed 
— it  was  what  one  might  expect  of  green  whiskey. 
He  pompously  waved  a  commanding  hand  to  the 
stairs. 

"Gentlemen  upstairs  and  straight  back"  he  in 
toned. 

"Huh?  Oh  sure — I  get  yuh."  Raleigh  marched 
leisurely  up  the  stairs,  with  gapes  at  the  pictures  and 
hangings. 

He  found  half  a  dozen  men  smoking  and  loung 
ing  about.  Evidently  he  was  expected,  for  every  eye 
turned  on  him  as  he  entered. 

"Evening,  gents"  he  cried  gayly,  tossing  hat  and 
coat  on  the  bed.  There  were  muttered  and  aston 
ished  greetings.  A  somewhat  older  man  stared  in 
tently  at  him  without  a  change  of  expression;  one 
middle-sized  youngster,  with  pink  hair  and  glasses 
returned  his  smile  with  an  embarrassed  nod.  Others 


Table-Manners  229 

grinned  at  each  other  covertly.  A  thin- faced  man, 
lined  lightly  about  the  eyes  and  with  thin  curling  lips 
and  hair  brushed  tightly  to  his  skull,  looked  at  him 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  took  no  trouble 
to  conceal  a  light  sneer. 

"Norman  Boyd"  thought  Raleigh. 

He  pulled  a  loose  cigarette  from  his  pocket  and 
fumbled  for  a  match.  The  room  had  grown  a  little 
awkward — to  all  save  Raleigh.  He  could  have 
shouted  with  delight.  He  walked  with  a  slight  swag 
ger  to  Boyd,  and  leaned  toward  his  smoking 
cigarette. 

"How's  chances  for  a  light?"  he  asked,  and  with 
out  waiting  for  a  reply,  seized  Boyd's  hand  in  his 
own  (whereon  he  had  carefully  left  a  slight  ingrain 
of  dirt)  and  pressed  the  end  of  the  cigarette  against 
his  own. 

Boyd  flushed,  and  endured  it  with  lifted  eyebrows. 
Raleigh  nodded  jerkily  at  him. 

"Don't  mention  it"  said  Boyd  acidly,  and  turned 
his  back.  There  was  a  little  silence.  Raleigh  stood 
alone,  the  others  grouped  round  the  fireplace.  The 
awkwardness  grew.  Then  the  pink-haired  man  sud 
denly  walked  across  the  room  to  Raleigh  with  a 
slight  defiance  visible  in  the  tilt  of  his  head. 

"You're  a  friend  of  Miss  Grayson's  aren't  you?" 
he  asked  in  a  pleasant  light  voice.  He  smiled  with 
a  rather  large  curly  mouth,  and  drew  forth  a  ciga 
rette  from  a  case. 

"May  I  trouble  you  for  a  light?"  he  asked  with 
great  distinctness. 


230  Chanting  Wheels 

Raleigh's  mouth  twitched.  The  older  man  smiled 
slowly  and  turned  round. 

"Sure"  returned  Raleigh. 

"My  name's  Huggins"  said  the  pink-haired  boy, 
holding  out  his  hand.  Raleigh  slapped  his  into  it 
with  the  gesture  that  in  the  movies  registers  in 
tense  masculinity  bordering  on  toughness.  It  almost 
rocked  the  smaller  man  off  his  feet.  Raleigh  looked 
into  his  eyes,  pleasant  greenish  eyes  behind  their 
glasses,  and  instantly  liked  him.  "A  real  person"  he 
said  to  himself.  "Glad  to  meet  yuh"  he  grinned. 
"My  name's  Raleigh — Dan  Raleigh." 

It  broke  the  tension.  The  others  moved  about 
and  talked  among  themselves. 

Raleigh  smoked  a  while  in  silence,  then  tossed  his 
cigarette  into  the  fire. 

"Well — I  gotta  go  down  in  a  minute"  he  said.  He 
drew  forth  a  small  knife  and  manicured  his  nails 
elaborately.  "Miss  Grayson  told  me  to  meet  her 
down  there,  and  that  lady  don't  want  to  be  kept 
waitin',  I  believe." 

He  swaggered  out. 

He  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  linger  in  the 
dim  hall  outside  the  door.  He  heard  a  gust  of 
laughter  from  within,  and  a  pleasant  drawl. 

"That's  right,  Dicky — be  the  good  Samaritan." 

"Oh  rats  !"  highly  and  explosively.  "We  all  acted 
like  cads — stared  at  him  like  something  out  of  a  zoo. 
I  was  just  trying  to  make  it  a  little  easier  for  the 
chap.  I  like  him.  Of  course  he's  crude " 

"Goodlookin'  beggar."    This  in  a  deep  voice  that 


Table-Manners  231 

Raleigh  placed  as  the  older  man's.  "Clothes  all 
right  too — look  like  Brooks  Brothers  to  me,  'cept 
for  that  damn  watch  chain  an'  the  vaudeville  collar." 

Boyd's  drawl  cut  it. 

"Oh,  those  fellows  sink  every  cent  in  clothes. 
They're  making  more  than  they  ever  did  in  their 
lives,  and  it  goes  to  their  heads.  He'd  have  the  brass 
to  go  to  a  first  class  tailor  and  demand  a  proper 
outfit.  I  think  the  chain  places  his  taste  about  cor 
rectly." 

There  was  a  movement  toward  the  door,  and 
Raleigh  fled  precipitously  down  the  hall.  He  put  a 
chiclet  in  his  mouth  and  began  chewing,  four  four 
time,  allegretto,  with  great  gusto. 

He  found  Eleanor  in  the  hall  below,  with  a  small 
woman  who  turned  up  a  face  like  a  solemn  little 
pansy  to  him. 

"Mr.  Raleigh,  Mrs.  Allen,  our  hostess."  Eleanor 
managed  a  slightly  anxious  tone  admirably. 

Raleigh  drove  Mrs.  Allen's  rings  into  her  fingers 
till  she  winced  at  his  grip. 

"Awful  glad  to  see  yuh,"  he  beamed,  between 
chews.  Marian  Allen  looked  up  the  length  of  him 
critically. 

"Really,  Eleanor,  he's  delightful."  She  was 
blithely  impersonal  about  it;  Raleigh  might  have 
been  the  rug. 

"Aw  gwan — ain't  you  the  little  kidder"  guffawed 
he,  with  a  kind  of  elephantine  coyness. 

The  other  men  came  down — they  all  moved  into 
the  drawing  room.  Raleigh  blundered  through  in- 


232  Chanting  Wheels 

troductions  like  a  puppy  through  a  flower  garden, 
leaving  crushed  fingers  and  stares  in  his  wake.  He 
insisted  on  shaking  hands  with  every  one  individu 
ally.  One  beautifully  gowned  girl  ignored  his  hand, 
and  smiled  very  coldly.  Raleigh  maneuvered  to 
stand  innocently  upon  her  train  a  few  moments  later. 
She  moved  off  with  a  terrifying  ripping  of  fabric. 
Raleigh  leaped  with  clumsiness. 

"Gosh,  I'm  awful  sorry"  he  said  "I  didn't  follow 
yer  dress  clear  down  onta  the  ground." 

She  bowed  elaborately.  "Oh,  that  is  quite  to  be 
expected"  she  returned.  Eleanor  smiled  behind  her 
fan. 

Dinner  was  announced.  Marian  placed  him  at  her 
right,  across  from  Norman  Boyd.  Huggins  grinned 
at  him  encouragingly  from  down  the  table.  Raleigh 
deliberately  plumped  into  his  chair,  then  seeing  the 
others  seating  ladies,  leaped  up,  and  awkwardly  pul 
led  Eleanor's  chair  out. 

Marian,  reaching  to  adjust  a  candle,  inadvertently 
upset  a  tall  salt  cellar.  It  poured  a  stream  of  salt  into 
the  seat  of  his  chair.  Instantly  he  turned  to  her, 
grinning. 

"Can't  catch  me  that  way,  m'am"  he  shot  at  her. 

Even  Boyd  added  an  unwilling  laugh  to  the 
general  chorus. 

Eleanor,  looking  sidewise  at  him,  marvelled  that 
anyone  could  be  taken  in.  To  be  sure,  he  had  plast 
ered  his  light  hair  flat  to  his  skull,  but  it  gave  a  new 
sharpness  and  cleanness  to  his  head.  His  tie  was  of 


Table-Manners  233 

the  sort  that  crawls  as  in  shame  under  the  eaves  of 
a  spreading  collar.  His  watch  chain  might  have 
anchored  the  Armada,  and  dangled  a  large  charm 
in  the  form  of  a  bejewelled  hen  regarding  a  topaz 
egg.  But  to  her  the  stamp  was  so  unmistakable  in 
the  flatness  of  his  small  ears  and  the  set  of  his 
head.  She  began  to  worry  a  little. 

But  with  the  hor  d'oeuvres  her  worry  vanished. 
Raleigh  attacked  them  with  his  salad  fork,  and  A 
knife  picked  at  random.  Boyd's  eyebrows  shot  up 
and  his  sneering  smile  spread. 

Throughout  the  dinner,  he  continued.  Before 
Marian's  fascinated  gaze,  he  piled  a  monument  of 
gravy  and  bread  atop  a  knife  with  great  dexterity, 
and  engulfed  it  with  ease.  Covert  and  awed  glances 
of  amusement  flew  about.  Eleanor  was  finding  it  a 
little  more  difficult  than  she  had  imagined.  Huggins, 
whom  she  barely  knew,  looked  at  her  with  badly 
concealed  scorn,  and  turned  sympathetic  eyes  on 
Raleigh.  Others  did  likewise. 

But  their  sympathy  was  wasted.  Raleigh's  sub 
lime  unconsciousness  masked  a  keen  enjoyment  that 
threatened  to  send  him  continually  into  shouts  of 
laughter.  There  was  much  wine.  At  the  end  of 
the  dinner,  he  raised  the  finger  bowl  somewhat  un 
steadily,  and  drank  it  dry.  He  smacked  his  lips. 

"Fine  stuff"  he  said  to  the  petrified  Marian. 
"Hasn't  got  the  kick  of  this,  though"  patting  his 
glass. 

They  trooped  into  the  parlor  together.  He  man 
aged  a  word  with  Eleanor. 


234  Chanting  Wheels 

"Am  I  doing  all  right?' 

"Almost  too  well."  There  was  a  strain  in  her 
voice,  and  Raleigh  saw  that  she  was  very  white. 

"Ellie"  he  had  adopted  her  nickname  "what  in 
the  world's  the  matter — are  you  sick  ?" 

She  rallied  quickly.  "Nothing — nothing  at  all. 
I  have  a  little  mite  of  a  headache." 

"We'll  go  home  early"  he  said.  "I'm  bursting  to 
tell  you  all  the  things  Mrs.  Allen  said  to  me.  I 
never  was  vamped  before."  The  wine  was  singing 
in  Raleigh,  and  he  hummed  a  snatch  of  Tristan  to 
himself. 

"Give  us  a  tune,  Dick,"  commanded  someone. 
Huggins  shook  his  head.  "Too  many  cocktails, 
George.  It  always  goes  right  to  my  fingers." 

Raleigh  boisterously  hailed  him. 

"Tickle  the  ole'  ivories,  kiddo"  he  cried.  "I  wanna 
dance."  He  clapped  a  hand  to  Huggins's  shoulder, 
and  hauled  him  to  the  piano.  His  own  fingers  were 
itching. 

Huggins  swung  into  one  of  the  latest  syncopations, 
the  melody  somewhat  blurred  by  alcoholic  omissions, 
but  the  time  kept  perfectly.  Raleigh  seized  his  di 
minutive  hostess  and  whisked  her  out  into  the  hall. 
They  danced.  Raleigh's  head  spun  a  little,  and  the 
music  melted  into  his  legs  so  that  he  fairly  floated. 
At  the  end  she  looked  up  at  him  breathlessly. 

"Why,  you  dance  beautifully!"  she  cried. 

"Sure"  returned  Raleigh  calmly.  "I  like  to  swing 
'em,  now  and  then."  His  arms  were  still  round  her; 
she  looked  up  at  him  with  saucy  lips. 


Table-Manners  235 

"I  didn't  realize  you  were  so  tall"  she  was  saying. 
"Really,  I'm  quite  falling  in  love  with  you,  Mr. 
Raleigh." 

Raleigh  stooped  swiftly  and  kissed  her — hard. 
Toward  the  end  she  struggled  suddenly.  Raleigh 
released  her  and  looked  down  with  a  smile.  Her 
eyes  sparkled  with  anger. 

"How  dare  you,"  she  cried  in  a  low  voice.  "I 
should  have  you  put  out  of  my  house,  at  once,  now, 
this  minute."  She  stamped  her  small  foot. 

Raleigh  stared  at  her  blankly.  "Huh?  Why, 
that's  what  yuh  wanted,  wasn't  it?" 

Marian  stared  at  him  a  moment  with  a  look  as 
blank  as  his  own — not  quite,  for  Raleigh's  was  arti 
ficial,  and  hers  natural.  Then  she  broke  into  a  peal 
of  laughter.  "Really,  you  are  an  amazing  person. 
Of  course  it's  what  I  wanted."  She  was  quite  sud 
denly  composed.  "Now  run  in  and  take  care  of 
Miss  Grayson,  whom  you  should  not  have  left.  Kiss 
me  again." 

He  did,  perfunctorily. 

He  found  Eleanor  dancing  with  Boyd,  read  a 
signal  in  her  eyes,  and  forgot  his  pose  for  a  moment. 
He  tapped  Boyd's  shoulder  and  Calmly  took  Eleanor 
out  of  his  arms. 

"May  I  cut  in?"  he  asked  suavely,  as  they  moved 
off  together.  Boyd  stared.  It  didn't  fit. 

"I  think  we'll  go"  said  Eleanor.  "People  are 
getting  a  little  gay.  And  I  really  have  a  headache" 
she  added  as  an  afterthought. 

Marian  stopped  them  on  the  stairs.     "Not  going 


236  Chanting  Wheels 

Eleanor?  My  dear  you  simply  can't.  I've  lost  my 
heart  to  Mr.  Raleigh."  She  twinkled  at  him  out 
rageously. 

"Yes — we  must.  You  won't  mind  if  I  run  away, 
will  you  Marian?  I'm  not  feeling  up  to  snuff,  some 
how,  and"  she  smiled,  "you  know  Mr.  Raleigh  has 
to  get  up  at  six." 

"Aw,  say,  Miss  Eleanor,  don't  let  that  cut  no 
cheese"  said  Raleigh.  He  did  not  want  to  go  at  all. 
He  was  having  far  too  good  a  time.  He  had  shocked 
seven  people  since  dinner  and  kissed  his  hostess  ar 
dently.  But  Eleanor  shook  her  head,  and  he  rather 
glumly  telephoned  to  Peter. 

When  they  came  down,  with  wraps  ready,  it  was 
to  a  more  silent  room.  Several  of  the  men  were 
gathered  at  the  door  smoking,  and  on  the  stairs 
Raleigh  caught,  to  his  amazement,  the  opening 
chords  of  Chopin's  A  major  Polonaise,  chords  that 
should  crash  with  the  clang  of  victorious  army  hoofs. 
They  fell  with  tidy  precision.  It  was  a  gladiator 
masquerading  as  a  trained  nurse.  Raleigh  ground 
his  teeth,  and  leaped  to  the  door.  He  saw  the  girl 
whose  train  he  had  all  but  amputated  seated  at  the 
piano. 

She  missed  the  solo  D  that  stands  out  like  a  beacon 
at  the  opening  of  the  second  movement.  She  slid 
uncertainly  up  the  leaping  stairway  of  chromatic 
octaves  that  mark  its  end.  She  stuttered  in  the 
burring  bass  of  the  finale,  and  fell  between  the  A 
and  A-flat  of  the  last  chord. 


Table-Manners  237 

There  was  a  polite  patter  of  applause.  Boyd 
turned  to  Raleigh. 

"I  suppose  classical  music  doesn't  mean  anything 
to  you,"  he  drawled  deliberately. 

"It  might  if  it  was  decently  played."  The  musi 
cian  in  him — and  the  cocktails — stripped  off  his  pose 
clean.  He  swung  to  Marian. 

"May  I  play  that  for  you?"  he  asked,  and  without 
waiting  for  an  answer,  crossed  the  room  in  three 
strides.  He  scooped  cover,  pictures,  and  music  off 
the  piano  top  with  one  gesture,  and  dumped  them  on 
a  chair.  He  raised  the  piano  lid,  unconscious  of  the 
arrested  movements  in  the  room — the  sudden  ten 
sion.  The  only  thing  he  was  conscious  of  was  a 
burning  need  to  right  an  artistic  wrong.  He  sat 
down  at  the  piano  and  brought  his  hands  down  to  the 
opening  chords  with  a  crash  that  drove  the  buzzing 
whispers  to  instant  silence.  He  played  through  it 
like  one  inspired,  piled  the  mounting,  volcanic  cres 
cendo  at  the  end,  and  finished  to  a  stunned  stillness 
that  throbbed.  He  bolted  to  the  door,  seized  Eleanor, 
grabbed  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and  they  raced  for  the 
front  door.  Babel  broke  behind  them.  He  slammed 
the  door  in  the  butler's  face. 

"I  couldn't  help  it"  he  said  breathlessly,  when 
they  were  seated  in  the  car.  "It  was  too  awful." 
He  grew  a  little  calmer.  "I  suppose  it  was  mean  to 
that  girl — but  she  deserved  it.  I'm  sorry  if  I've 
spoiled  your  bluff,  but  it  was  one  too  many." 

Eleanor  had  not  recovered  speech.  When  she  did, 
it  was  to  laugh. 


238  Chanting  Wheels 

"They  would  have  found  it  out  sooner  or  later," 
she  returned.  "It  was  a  marvellous  exit." 

It  lifted  for  a  moment  the  pain  of  the  evening  for 
her.  Through  Raleigh's  exaggerated  gaucheries, 
her  busy  imagination  had  threaded  a  bitter  pattern 
of  truth  .  .  .  Raleigh,  a  moment  later,  heard  a 
small  but  distinct  sob.  In  amazement  he  seized  her 
hand. 

"Ellie — whatever  in  the  world " 

Eleanor  gulped  violently.  "Oh — it's  all  right, 
Dan — it's  nothing — n — nothing"  to  confirm  it  she 
cried  dismally.  His  arm  shot  around  her. 

"Eleanor — dear — please  tell  me — is  it  anything 
I've " 

"Oh  no,  no — I'm  just — things  are  so  puzzling, 
Dan " 

Raleigh  impulsively  kissed  her,  but  she  shook 
her  head,  and  pushed  him  away,  gently.  "No — Dan 
— please"'  the  voice  was  very  quiet.  Never  had  he 
touched  her  before. 

"Oh — I'm  sorry"  his  head  was  swirling  with 
wonder.  "Is  there  anything  I  can " 

"I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  some  time — perhaps — it's 
really — I'm  too  silly  .  .  ."  She  talked  rapidly 
about  the  dinner,  in  a  steadying  voice,  amusingly, 
with  very  small  knowledge  of  what  she  was  saying, 
during  the  rest  of  the  drive.  Raleigh,  with  increasing 
amazement  but  unbroken  tact,  followed  her  lead.  He 
left  her  at  the  door,  with  a  warm  little  pressure  in 
his  hand  and  a  look  out  of  her  eyes  that  added  to 
the  growing  bewilderment  of  his  mind. 


Table-Manners  239 

"My  God — she  can't  be — "  he  checked  himself. 
"Don't  be  a  conceited  ass,  Rip"  he  told  himself 
severely.  But  the  thought  came  back.  His  playing — 
he  had  never  played  like  that — perhaps  it  had  awak 
ened  the  depth  that  he  sought  continually  under  the 
cool  charm  of  her  .  .  . 

He  went  to  bed  convinced  that  she  had  fallen  in 
love  with  him,  and  more  than  half  sure  that  he  was 
with  her. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MENACE 

S  MET  ANA  pushed  the  lever  of  his  crane,  high  in 
the  control  box  where  he  sat.  The  big  arm 
ducked  obediently;  the  three  magnets  chinked  upon 
a  girder,  and  presently  the  crane  was  travelling  down 
the  yard  like  a  clumsy  bird  of  prey. 

Since  the  concert  he  had  felt  curiously  at  rest.  It 
was  as  if  a  spring,  long  kept  at  vibrating  tension,  had 
relaxed.  He  no  longer  heard  the  dry  whining  of 
his  mind.  With  the  white  scream  that  had  focused 
it  to  a  center  on  the  day  of  his  recognition  of  David 
Harde,  a  quiet  peace  had  settled  upon  it.  They — the 
giant  shapes  that  had  so  long  troubled  him,  no  longer 
haunted.  With  the  same  instinct  that  caused  the 
savage  to  deify  wind  and  lightning,  and  so  planted 
the  first  seed  of  religion,  Smetana  had  personified  the 
hated  powers  of  the  Hydraulic  into  queer  Things — 
neither  human  nor  mechanical,  but  children  of  an 
unholy  union  between  the  two.  Vaguely,  age-old, 
was  the  thought  of  sacrifice  in  his  mind  .  .  . 

He  smiled  faintly  to  himself  as  he  lowered  the 
girder  to  its  place  and  demagnetized  the  lifting  mag- 

240 


Menace  241 

nets  with  a  little  switch  button.  The  noon  whistle 
blew,  and  he  ran  the  control  box  to  the  lateral  girder 
of  the  frame,  climbed  out,  and  down  a  ladder  to  the 
ground.  Mengles  sauntered  up  opening  a  lunch  box. 
Mengles  had  formed  the  habit  of  spending  much  of 
his  noon  hour  with  the  boy.  He  flattered  Mengles  by 
the  eagerness  with  which  he  listened  to  his  socialism, 
a  poison  most  of  the  men  were  healthy  enough  to 
withstand;  like  microbes  in  a  strong  body  it  made 
no  infection.  But  in  the  cancerous  mind  of  Smetana 
the  germ  leaped  into  distorted  growth. 

Mengles  smiled  his  crooked  smile  at  him  and 
fingered  his  chin. 

"Say — you  know  Raleigh  purty  well,  don't  you?" 
he  began,  as  they  seated  themselves  on  a  pile  of  iron 
and  began  eating  their  lunch. 

Smetana  nodded.  "Yes.  I  sing  in  that  concert," 
he  hummed  a  phrase  of  the  shop  chanty  in  his  high 
dear  voice. 

The  older  man  bit  off  the  end  of  a  pickle  medita 
tively. 

"Well  say — how  about  getting  him  to  pass  it 
around  to  the  boys — that  bunch  o'  yours  in  the  con 
cert — that  when  Grabler  talks  to  'em — in  about  a 
week  now — that  they're  to  eat  up  what  he  says? 
Raleigh  ain't  keen  on  the  strike  at  all — he  don't  be 
lieve  in  no  closed  shop.  Grabler  talked  to  him,  an' 
found  that  out  in  a  hurry.  He  didn't  let  on  tuh 
Raleigh  who  he  was — just  said  he  had  a  scheme  for 
helpin'  the  men,  an'  mostly  the  furriners.  He  got 
Raleigh  to  promise  he'd  tip  em  off  that  Grabler  had 

16 


242  Chanting  Wheels 

the  right  dope.  Well,  he  ain't  done  it.  Will  you 
tell  him  to?" 

"Yes — I  tell  him."  Smetana  considered  the  other 
gravely.  "But  I  want  you  do  someting  for  me." 
He  smiled  craftily. 

Mengles  nodded,  a  little  amused. 

"Sure  kid,  if  I  can.    What's  the  idea?" 

"You  know  dem  long  thin  piece  of  iron;  dey  was 
here  de  odder  day — very  sof,  very  wavy " 

"I  get  yuh.  Stuff  that  looked  like  laths  made  out 
o'  iron.  Sure — I  remember  the  stuff — what  about 
it?" 

Smetana  did  not  reply  at  once.  He  was  looking 
dreamily  at  the  crane.  Mengles,  peering  sharply  into 
his  face,  experienced  suddenly  a  coolness  along  his 
spine.  Smetana  spoke  very  gently. 

"You  have  some  of  dem  lef  here."  He  pointed 
to  an  open  spot  near  them  where  several  men  stood 
watching  the  operation  of  a  new  and  enormous  bar 
rel-press.  Mengles  who  was  sub-foreman  of  the 
crane  yard,  looked  at  him  with  surprise. 

"What  the  hell  do  you  want  them  for?" 

Smetana's  smile  deepened. 

"I  want  dem  keep  there — all  time — for  HI'  while." 

Mengles  swore  under  his  breath.  Here  was  no 
strike  agitation;  here  were  forces  far  deeper.  The 
look  of  Smetana's  face  puzzled  him,  and  frightened 
him  a  little. 

"Off'n  that  stuff"  he  said  roughly,  his  slick  ex 
terior  gone  for  a  moment.  "I  ain't  got  no  business 
leavin'  them  things  there." 


Menace  243 

"You  leave  dem  dere  or  I  tell  Raleigh  bout  every- 
ting." 

"All  right."  Mengles  capitulated  instantly.  "Only 
— I  don't  know  nuttin'  about  it,  see?  Nuttin'  at 
tall." 

Smetana  nodded  coolly.    "Oh  no.    Nuttin'  at  all." 

That  afternoon  a  pile  of  rusty,  long  pieces  of  steel 
were  brought  to  one  end  of  the  crane  yard.  They 
looked  like  laths,  as  Mengles  had  said;  they  were 
about  ten  feet  long  and  very  flexible.  Smetana 
drooped  the  magnets  above  them.  They  flew  up  to 
their  massive  surfaces,  writhing,  and  clanged  there. 


Several  days  later,  Raleigh,  at  the  first  toot  of  the 
noon  whistle,  sped  to  the  corner  of  the  inspection 
room  that  had  been  sanctified  to  him  since  his  fight 
with  Mulgully.  The  success  of  the  concert  had 
icemented  Raleigh's  singers  into  a  swaggeringly 
proud  club.  Nowhere  does  snobbery  so  spring  as 
in  the  very  roots  of  a  democracy.  Raleigh  watched 
with  secret  amusement  the  gigantic  Kalousdian, 
twirling  his  moustaches  and  sailing  up  the  hot-press 
shop  with  Giovanni  mincing  beside  him,  like  a  grand 
duke  entering  a  ballroom  with  a  dowager.  Mulgully 
appeared  from  another  door.  Two  men  looked  at 
him,  consulted  between  themselves,  then  trailed  along 
behind.  Came  Sapinsky  and  Mesanyov,  and  the 
others,  and  grouped  round  the  hot  billets  on  con 
veyors  or  inspection  tables.  Since  the  day  when 


244  Chanting  Wheels 

McGill  had  found  a  car-load  of  potatoes  on  one  of 
the  tracks  in  the  shop,  that  some  strange  switch-yard 
mistake  had  placed  there,  and  had  baked  several  of 
them  in  the  little  round  ovens  that  the  hot  billets 
formed,  there  had  been  a  great  vogue  of  bringing 
all  sorts  of  food,  and  cooking  it  at  the  noon  rest 
period. 

They  all  fell  to  eating  with  such  a  confusion  of 
tongues  as  was  never  heard  since  the  days  of  Babel. 
Raleigh  was  deep  in  talk  with  Fred  and  Moran,  who, 
together  with  Smetana  and  Giovanni,  formed  the 
picked  quartet  among  the  men. 

"I've  got  some  beautiful  things  I'm  arranging 
now,"  Raleigh  was  saying  "I'm  all  keen  on  not  giv 
ing  another  concert  for  at  least  two  months,  so  that 
we  can  really  work  up  a  show  of  all  our  own  things 
— a  musical  comedy  that  I'll  write.  Smetana  here'd 
make  a  fine  leading  lady." 

"That's  all  right"  cut  in  McGill  among  the  guf 
faws.  "That's  fine  for  the  music,  Dan.  But  I 
think  you've  started  somethin'  else."  He  dropped 
his  voice.  "My  gang  on  the  press  is  about  disor 
ganized.  Sapinski's  the  only  one  of  five  that  was  in 
the  concert.  He's  so  damn  stuck  up  that  he  won't 
hardly  speak  to  the  other  guys.  It's  ruinin'  my 
morale.  They  all  want  to  join.  I  think  you  ought 
to  take  in  about  twice  as  many  more  as  we've  got 
now." 

"Yes,  an'  hire  the  Hippodrome  for  the  herd,  I 
spose"  retorted  Moran.  "I  git  what  ye  mean  though. 
Ye  ought  to  take  more  in,  Rosy." 


Menace  245 

Raleigh  nodded.  "I'll  form  a  whole  new  bunch 
and  start  some  competitive  singing"  he  said.  "But 
I'll  have  to  pick  them  a  little.  After  all,  everyone  in 
this  bunch  is  really  musical,  except  Mulgully.  But 
ultimately  we'll  get  the  whole  damn  place  singing." 

He  finished  his  last  sandwich  and  stood  up.  Most 
of  the  men  were  through  eating,  and  were  talking 
in  groups  and  smoking. 

"What  shall  it  be,  boys?"  he  asked. 

A  chorus  greeted  him.  "Napoli" — "Kentucky 
Babe" — with  a  growing  majority  for  the  "Japanese 
Sandman."  Raleigh  lifted  his  hand,  gave  the  pitch 
in  a  bellow,  swung  to  an  inspection  table  facing  them, 
and  the  syncopated,  lilting  harmony  began. 

Men  came  in  from  other  parts  of  the  shop,  as 
usual,  until  the  room  was  nearly  filled.  When 
Raleigh's  "Shop  Chanty"  began,  the  chorus  was  con 
siderably  increased;  some  hummed  it  uncertainly, 
others  came  out  full  voices,  for  the  melody,  in  spite 
of  its  strange  ancient  simplicity  (or  more  likely 
because  of  it)  had  taken  with  the  force  of  a  national 
song  hit. 

Smetana,  at  a  look  from  Mengles,  whispered  to 
Raleigh  under  cover  of  the  singing,  and  when  it 
ended  in  a  mighty  shout,  Raleigh  spoke. 

"Say  boys,  an  old  chap  was  at  the  concert  the  other 
night.  He  seems  to  think  we  were  the  original 
songbirds.  He's  got  some  sort  of  a  scheme  up  his 
sleeve  that  he  says  is  going  to  be  fine  for  us,  and 
wanted  me  to  ask  you  to  stick  up  for  it — I  gather 
it's  something  we  have  to  vote  on,  perhaps — anyhow, 


246  Chanting  Wheels 

he  wanted  you  all  with  him.  Maybe  he  s  going  to 
give  us  all  a  job  at  Keith's.  Anyhow,  give  him  a 
glad  hand  when  he  talks  to  you,  will  you  ?  He's  com 
ing  out  and  harangue  us  some  time  soon." 

"What's  his  name,  Rosy?"  called  one,  amid  brief 
nods  and  ejaculations. 

"Wabler — Tabler — he  did  tell  me,  but  I've  for 
gotten — wait  a  minute — Grabler,  that's  it." 

The  name  meant  nothing  to  the  men.  Mengles  had 
wisely  never  mentioned  it  in  his  quiet  talks. 

Mulgully  rumbled  the  sentiment  of  the  others. 

"Aw  right,  kid,"  he  said,  and  spat  voluminously. 
"If  you  say  he's  got  the  goods,  we're  for  him." 

The  whistle  shrieked,  and  the  group  dissolved  with 
unwilling  speed.  Mengles  grinned  to  Smetana.  He 
planned  a  speech  to  Grabler  displaying  his  own  great 
cleverness. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

CULMINATION 

Eleanor!"  Raleigh,  his  work  done  for  the 
day,  stopped  on  the  way  to  the  Welfare  Build 
ing  as  he  caught  sight  of  a  familiar  trim  figure  in 
blue  going  up  one  of  the  long  corridors  to  the  office. 

She  turned  and  smiled  appreciatively  at  his  eager 
face.  Always  these  glimpses  of  Eleanor  in  the  shops 
were  consoling  to  him,  with  her  small  hats  and  her 
suits  tailored  to  a  simplicity  that  sang  a  song  of 
Paris  only  to  the  discerning  few.  He  was  parti 
cularly  glad  to  see  her  today. 

"Such  a  joke"  he  bubbled,  taking  her  hand,  and 
grinning  at  her.  "What  are  you  doing  now?  I'm 
on  my  way  up  to  the  piano  to  try  something  over. 
Can't  you  come?  I've  got  a  screaming  thing  to  tell 
you." 

"I  was  just  going  out.  Peggy  McGill  is  here 
somewhere;  I  met  her  coming  in  and  told  her  I'd 
run  her  up  to  her  house." 

"We'll  find  her  after  a  while.  Fred  knows  where 
I  am ;  they'll  come  up  here,  I'm  sure." 

They  mounted  the  stairs  to  the  Welfare  Hall, 
247 


248  Chanting  Wheels 

empty  and  bare  as  if  it  had  never  masqueraded  as 
an  Italian  palace.  Raleigh  opened  the  piano. 

"What  is  this  grand  joke?"  asked  Eleanor.  She 
welcomed  Raleigh  that  afternoon.  He  was  such  a 
bubbling  soul;  she  couldn't  fancy  herself  getting 
emotional  about  him.  One  might  as  well  become 
emotional  over  gingerale. 

"Joke?  Oh  yes.  Well — do  you  remember  that 
chap  at  dinner  that  was  particularly  nasty  to  me? 
Lloyd  or  something." 

"Boyd,  Norman  Boya.  He  has  a  tongue  like  a 
debutante  of  ten  years  standing." 

"Quite;  and  rather  the  look  of  one.  You  see,  I 
ran  into  Reg  Tyson  on  the  street  the  other  night, 
coming  out  of  the  Hollend.  It  was  good  to  see 
him,  too — Reg  always  assures  one  so  of  the  ultimate 
respectability  of  the  nation.  He  bore  down  upon  me 
with  a  well-bred  howl,  and  there  was  no  escaping. 
We  went  to  dinner  at  his  club  and  were  getting  on 
beautifully,  what  with  college  gossip  and  Reg's  flask, 
when  this  Boyd  person  appeared,  and  trickled  into  a 
chair  nearby.  He  looked  at  Reg's  guest,  and  when 
he  recognized  me,  nearly  fell  under  the  table." 

"He's  just  gotten  into  the  Junefield  after  years  of 
maneuvering,"  explained  Eleanor.  "And  of  course, 
the  Tysons" — she  made  a  mock  genuflection. 

Raleigh  nodded.  "I  thought  as  much.  Old  Reg 
caught  his  stare,  and  nodded.  After  dinner  he  came 
over,  and  beamed  at  Reg,  who  started  to  introduce 
us.  I  was  very  stiff  and  proud,  like  the  messenger 
in  'Alice  Through  the  Looking  Glass,'  and  Boyd 


Culmination  249 

turned  a  little  pink,  and  managed  to  emit  that  he 
had  met  me.  'Oh/  said  Reg,  who  had  been  vacuum- 
cleaning  me  about  what  I  was  doing.  He  looked  at 
Boyd  the  way  Reg  does,  down  his  nose  a  little. 
'You're  jolly  lucky'  he  said.  'I  haven't  been  able  to 
get  hold  of  him  till  tonight.'  Then  he  led  me  off, 
rather  loftily.  It  was  lovely." 

Eleanor  was  looking  at  him  with  amused  eyes. 
Sometimes  he  seemed  very  young. 

"You  know,  you  are  really  a  little  conceited,  Dan" 
she  said  calmly. 

"My  dear,  I  am  very  conceited.  It  is  the 
only  defense  of  the  sensitive  against  mediocre 
minds." 

"Indeed!  Well,  kindly  prove  the  superiority  of 
your  own  by  devising  food,  at  once!  I'm  starved, 
and  it's  tea  time." 

"So  am  I.  Wait."  He  darted  downstairs,  and 
presently  returned  with  tea  and  crackers,  and  rolls, 
a  jar  of  jam,  and  small  cakes. 

"Restaurant"  he  grinned.  "I  think  I've  made 
good.  None  but  a  superior  mind  ever  makes  friends 
with  the  cook." 

He  put  the  tray  on  the  piano  bench,  and  drew  up 
chairs  at  the  opposite  ends  of  it. 

"So  like  your  room  with  the  tip-table"  he  said 
laughing,  and  glancing  round  at  the  bare  walls  and 
floor. 

"Yes,"  she  entered  in.  "You  ought  to  get 
Smetana — is  that  his  name?  to  serve  things  on  a 
piece  of  steel." 


250  Chanting  Wheels 

"Smetana's  very  busy  operating  a  large  crane  at 
present.  The  only  thing  he  could  serve  you  would 
be  girders  at  the  end  of  a  six  ton  magnet." 

They  talked  eagerly  and  delightedly  of  many 
things.  Raleigh,  remembering  the  curious  mood  in 
which  he  had  left  her,  looked,  with  masculine  egoism, 
for  an  added  sparkle  in  her  speech,  an  added  mean 
ing  in  her  words,  and  of  course  found  them.  He 
realized  how  stimulating  she  was  with  a  dawning 
sense  of  great  discovery. 

"Why  Eleanor"  he  said,  leaning  across  the  im 
provised  table  toward  her.  "I  feel  as  if  I'd  never 
seen  you  before  in  my  whole  life.  You're  like  a  new 
person  today." 

"It's  the  environment"  declared  Eleanor.  "I  shine 
by  contrast.  Or  perhaps  it's  this  hat.  I  don't  feel 
a  bit  that  way  about  you.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been 
seeing  you  all  my  life.  And  it's  only  been — let's 
see — three  months  since  I  saw  you  reading  Pelleas 
on  the  car." 

"What  did  you  really  think?" 

"I  thought,  'Here's  Romance  with  a  smut  on  his 
nose.'  I  noticed  the  clothes  first,  of  course.  That's 
why  I  came  and  sat  beside  you.  I  knew  the  match 
ing  of  that  blue  toque  with  the  stripe  in  the  Macki 
naw  wasn't  coincidence.  Then  the  Pelleas.  What 
did  you  think  ?" 

"When  you  spotted  the  score  I  nearly  died  of  joy. 
It  was  someone  speaking  my  language  in  a  very 
foreign  land,  at  that  particular  moment.  I  was 
afraid  to  look  round  for  fear  you'd  be  scrofulous 


Culmination  251 

and  have  a  squint.  I  nearly  chewed  you  as  one 
would  a  chocolate." 

They  both  loved  the  nonsense. 

"When  can  I  come  up  to  see  you?"  asked  Raleigh, 
when  they  had  reached  the  little  cakes,  and  he  had 
poured  himself  a  third  cup  of  tea  out  of  the  tin  pot. 
"This  is  all  very  well,  but  I  long  to  see  you  in  front 
of  that  table  of  yours — why,  it's  been  aeons  since 
I've  seen  you." 

"You  forget  the  dinner." 

"That  didn't  count.  There  were  mobs  of  people. 
There  always  seem  to  be  mobs  of  people;  there  was 
an  odious  person  who  referred  all  the  time  to  things 
you  had  done  in  infancy  together  the  last  time  I  was 
there.  I  want — just  you."  Raleigh  felt  a  tingle 
when  he  said  it. 

She  was  far  too  astute  to  point  out  that  he  had  not 
demanded  "just  you."  After  all,  she  did  like  Raleigh 
tremendously.  He  didn't  upset  her. 

"You  can  come  next  Thursday"  she  said.  "Come 
to  dinner  with  just  mother  and  me." 

"Will  you  wear  that  gold  dress  with  the  pink  and 
gold  chiffon  train  and  the  long  gold  earrings  with 
little  pink  pearls?" 

Eleanor  gasped,  and  then  seized  his  hand 
rapturously. 

"Dan  Raleigh — you  angel!  If  men  knew  what 
it  meant  to  girls  to  have  clothes  noticed  like  that, 
they'd  go  about  with  fashion  notes  in  every  pocket. 
Do  you  always  observe  like  that?" 

"Always."     He   forgot  that  he  could  not  have 


252  Chanting  Wheels 

described  one  stitch  of  Peggy's  clothes.  "I'm  quite 
shameless  about  it.  I  could  tell  you  everything  you 
had  on  at  the  Allen  dinner — everything  visible,  that 
is"  he  added  at  her  lifted  brows.  They  both  laughed, 
and  he  leaned  toward  her  suddenly. 

"Eleanor,"  he  began  in  a  voice  dropped  to  the 
deep  huskiness  it  held  for  earnest  speech,  and  with 
an  added  vibrancy  that  gave  her  a  pleasant  exhilara 
tion.  "Do  you  think  that  I — " 

There  was  a  rush  of  footsteps — the  door  at  the 
other  end  of  the  hall  burst  open,  and  the  cook  from 
whom  Raleigh  had  procured  the  tea  rushed  into  the 
room,  his  face  livid  with  excitement  and  horror. 

"The  man  on  the  electric  crane's  gone  crazy — 
he's  got  Mr.  Harde"  ...  he  stammered  with 
fear. 

Before  the  words  had  ceased  echoing  in  the  big 
hall  Raleigh  and  Eleanor  had  sprung  for  the  stairs, 
and  were  racing  down.  They  sped  up  the  corridor 
to  the  shops,  Raleigh  far  in  the  lead.  They  flung 
round  a  corner  leading  into  shop  6,  and  Raleigh 
almost  knocked  down  Peggy  McGill.  One  look  at 
Raleigh's  face,  and  she,  with  Fred,  dashed  after 
them. 

"What  is  it?"  McGill  panted. 

"Don't    know — Uncle    Dave — hurt — crane    yard 

» 

They  tore  across  the  railroad  tracks.  Workmen, 
raising  faces  from  their  tools,  dropped  their  work 
incontinently  at  sight  of  them  and  joined. 

Raleigh  ducked  under  a  half  open  roller  door, 


Culmination  253 

tripped  over  a  low  shaft,  and  fell  cursing.  The 
others,  following  Fred,  flashed  through  another 
door  and  across  the  shop  to  the  crane  yard  beyond. 

When  he  saw  them  they  were  already  running 
down  to  the  yard  to  a  crowd  collected  under  the 
crane.  He  caught  up  with  the  two  girls,  and 
together  they  burst  through  the  crowd. 

Raleigh  for  an  instant,  was  unable  to  grasp  the 
significance  of  what  he  saw. 

In  the  blue  white  gleam  of  one  of  the  yard  arc- 
lights  loomed  the  crane,  the  control  box  in  the 
middle  of  its  girder  span.  Against  the  faint  grey 
of  the  last  low  twilight  the  crane's  skeleton  stretched 
gaunt  and  uncertain.  The  arm  was  slowly  raising; 
the  three  great  magnets  hung  thirty  feet  in  the  air. 
To  their  lower  surface  clung  an  indistinct  mass. 

As  Raleigh  looked,  blinded  by  the  light  of  the  arc- 
lamp,  a  furnace  in  an  adjacent  yard  opened,  and 
painted  the  picture  suddenly  in  white-rose  light  and 
black  shadows.  It  lit  the  wild  face  of  Smetana, 
leaning  out  of  the  control  box,  every  vestige  of  sanity 
swept  from  his  face.  His  eyes  flared.  It  lit  the 
angled  iron-work  of  the  crane,  and  vividly  it  lit  the 
mass  clinging  to  the  magnets.  Raleigh  knew  before 
he  saw. 

David  Harde  was  crushed  to  them,  strapped  by 
half  a  dozen  of  the  magnetized,  flexible  plates  that 
curved  round  his  body  like  withes  and  made  contact 
with  the  magnets  on  each  side  of  him.  He  was 
strapped  like  a  papoose  to  a  board.  His  face  was 
white  with  pain;  one  arm  had  been  caught  to  his 


254  Chanting  Wheels 

side;  the  other  tried  to  pry  away  the  steel  plates 
across  his  chest.  The  magnets  rose  higher  and 
higher. 

It  was  very  still;  it  seemed  to  Raleigh  that  Time 
had  stopped.  Voices  whispered  tensely  beside  him. 

"We  can't  cut  off  the  power — if  we  did  he'd 
drop." 

"Can't  get  to  the  control  box — My  God — he's 
shut  off  the  juice  himself  an' " 

Raleigh  heard  a  little  gasp  beside  him.  Eleanor 
Grayson,  staring  at  the  grotesquely  helpless  figure 
above  them,  threw  her  hand  suddenly  across  her 
face  with  a  curious  throaty  noise  and  sank  against 
him. 

At  the  same  instant,  rigid  little  fingers  dug  into 
his  arm  from  the  other  side.  Peggy,  her  eyes  like 
blue  flames  was  hissing  into  his  ear. 

"Smetana  loves  you.  Talk  to  him.  Keep  him 
lookin'  at  you."  She  vanished. 

Raleigh,  his  mind  whirling  with  excitement, 
handed  the  inert  Eleanor  incontinently  to  Fred, 
slipped  out  of  the  circle,  and  stood  clear.  He  looked 
up  at  Smetana.  The  boy  was  muttering  to  himself, 
and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  magnets. 

Raleigh  waved  a  hand  that  shook. 

"Hello,  Smetana"  he  called.  With  the  alertness 
of  his  nerves,  he  realized  his  voice  sounded  strange 
and  rough.  He  managed  a  genial  smile  through 
stiff  lips. 

Smetana  looked  suddenly  down,  saw  him,  and 
smiled,  a  terrifying  brilliant  smile.  It  made  his 


Culmination  255 

blazing  white  face  beautiful  as  a  coiled  snake  is 
beautiful. 

"  'Ello,  Mr.  Raleigh."  His  high  voice  rose  clear, 
and  his  face  burned  with  the  exaltation  of  the 
fanatic,  a  tremendous  excitement  under  its  calm. 
"You  see  Mr.  Raleigh — I  got  heem.  They  got  what 
they  want,  now."  The  crane  arm  was  slowly  and 
steadily  mounting. 

Raleigh  nodded  and  smiled. 

"Are  you  sure  he's  the  one  They  want,  Smetana? 
I  don't  think  They  want  him  at  all." 

Smetana  laughed;  a  long  peal  of  laughter  that 
sent  a  shudder  through  the  silent  crowd  below  him. 

"Oh  no,  Meester  Raleigh — dey  want  him.  Dey 
take  my  cousin;  dey  come  for  long  time  to  me  an' 
say  dey  want  nudder  one.  Now  dey  get  heem — 
same  way." 

Raleigh  assumed  a  look  of  craft. 

"Yes — but  you  know  They  want  a  young  man- — 
like  your  cousin.  Put  him  down,  Smetana,  and  take 
me.  I'd  love  to  go  to  They." 

Smetana  looked  at  him  soberly,  and  slowly  shifted 
a  lever.  The  crane-arm  stopped  ascending — no  one 
breathed — then  another  lever  shifted  and  it  began  to 
descend.  Raleigh's  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the  boy's 
face,  and  Smetana  continued  to  gaze  on  him  as  if 
hypnotized. 

But  in  the  fringe  of  vision  outside  the  focused 
image,  Raleigh  saw  a  figure  climb  quickly  up  the 
ladder  below  the  control  box  and  behind  it,  and 
begin  edging  along  the  lateral  girder  to  the  one 


256  Chanting  Wheels 

across  the  crane  yard  that  supported  the  box.  Des 
perately  he  struggled  to  keep  his  eyes  on  Smetana's, 
and  hold  the  boy's  look.  Slowly  the  crane  descended, 
Raleigh  felt  he  had  won. 

To  distract  Smetana  further,  he  began  waving 
his  hand  as  he  did  when  leading  the  men  in  singing. 

"How  about  the  Shop  Chanty,  Smetana,  before 
I  go  to  They?  Let's  sing  it." 

Instantly  the  boy  changed,  with  the  swiftness  of 
insanity.  His  smile  died  out.  He  jammed  the  gears 
with  a  clank,  and  the  crane  shot  up  giddily. 

"No!"  he  cried.  "Dey  can't  'ave  you — you  so 
kind  and  good — They  'ave  heem — he  laugh — he 
laugh  .  .  .  a-a-a-h."  The  voice  ended  with  a 
prolonged  howl  in  which  there  was  left  nothing 
human.  He  swooped  the  crane  arm  across,  the 
magnets  swaying,  and  brought  the  figure  clutched 
to  them  into  a  position  over  a  broad  flat  girder  forty 
feet  above  the  floor.  A  groan  welled  up  from  the 
crowd  below. 

The  climbing  figure  slipped  from  the  lateral 
girder  onto  a  transverse  one  directly  behind  and  a 
little  above  the  control  box. 

Raleigh  saw,  without  looking,  that  it  was  Peggy 
walking,  edging  silently  and  swiftly  along  eight 
inches  of  steel  swung  in  space. 

The  magnets  hung  motionless,  twice  a  man's 
height  above  the  girder.  David  Harde  no  longer 
moved;  his  head  and  arm  hung  limply  down  from 
the  prisoning  steel  strips. 

Smetana   for  the  first  time  looked  away   from 


Culmination  257 

Raleigh,  and  to  the  magnets.  Very  slowly  they 
began  to  lower,  and  as  it  became  apparent  what  he 
was  doing,  horror  broke  the  silence  that  had  held 
the  crowd  below  .  .  .  once  David  Harde  was 
lowered  to  the  girder,  the  cables  of  the  magnets 
would  sag,  and  the  whole  three  ton  weight  would 
slowly  fall  on  him  .  .  . 

Smetana  seemed  not  to  hear  the  shouts.  He  was 
again  smiling  like  a  busy  child  and  watching  the 
dangling  arm  and  head,  lowering  slowly  toward  the 
girder.  The  crowd's  cries  fell  to  silence  like  a 
broken  wave. 

' 'Smetana!  They  do  want  me — they  do — look 
at  me !" 

The  boy's  eyes  returned  to  Raleigh's. 

"No — dis — dis  de  one!"  he  screamed. 

Suddenly  he  began  to  sing  Raleigh's  Shop  Chanty. 
It  was  the  more  pungent  with  horror  because  the 
voice  soared  up  clear  and  beautiful,  yet  with  a  strange 
nerve-biting  vibrance — as  a  violin  string  will  give 
unbearable  clarity  just  before  breaking. 

The  rest  happened  with  incredible  swiftness. 

Lower  swung  the  magnets.  David  Harde's  droop 
ing  fingers  were  scarce  arms  length  above  the  girder 
— closer  crept  Peggy,  moving  with  infinite  stealth. 
The  red  light  caught  her  face,  and  burnished  her 
black  hair.  Smetana's  voice  sang  on. 

Then   the    Shop    Chanty    faltered,    broke.      On 

Raleigh's  ears  fell  the  awful  notes  of  the  Forbidden 

Mode.    Fiercely  it  rang  out.     It  seemed  to  Raleigh 

that  every  evil  swept  clamoring  to  life  to  meet  it — 

17 


258  Chanting  Wheels 

that  out  of  the  machines  slipped  their  malignant 
souls,  that  the  very  dust  gathered  into  shapes  of 
horror. 

And  as  he  watched,  he  saw  Smetana's  face  un 
believably  blur  and  alter — grow  rigid  with  some 
thing  infinitely  more  terrifying  than  human  mad 
ness.  They  had  indeed  found  a  victim.  His  voice 
rose  higher,  a  strange  volume  of  sound  billowing 
round  it.  It  was  not  one  voice.  It  was  many. 

David  Harde's  fingers  touched  the  girder;  his 
nerveless  wrist  doubled — the  arm  bent  at  the  elbow, 
sagged  on  itself — the  drooping  head  touched  the 
girder. 

Peggy  was  a  short  foot  behind  the  control  box. 
She  stooped  to  jump  into  it. 

Smetana's  voice  snapped  into  silence  on  a  shriek 
ing  crest;  he  suddenly  tossed  his  arms  in  front  of  his 
face  in  a  curious  warding  gesture,  clapped  them  to 
his  head,  and  pitched  forward  in  the  control  box. 

For  a  moment  everything  went  black  to  Raleigh ; 
then  he  saw  the  magnets  rapidly  rising,  saw  Peggy 
in  the  control  box.  The  magnets  lowered  to  the 
ground;  the  crowd  rushed  forward,  and  when  with 
a  clank  the  prisoning  plates  of  steel  fell  away  as  the 
current  was  shut  off,  gentle  hands  lifted  the  uncon 
scious  man. 

But  it  was  Eleanor  who  first  reached  him,  and  it 
was  upon  her  lap  his  head  lay. 

All  this  Raleigh  did  not  see,  for  he  was  the  first 
of  three  up  the  ladder  to  the  control  box.  He  ran 
recklessly  out  on  the  girder  to  the  control  box. 


Culmination  259 

Peggy  swayed  in  it.    He  leaped  beside  her. 

"Oh  Dan"  she  sobbed,  going  suddenly  limp. 

"Peggy"  His  arms  were  round  her.  "Oh  Peggy 
— I  love  you  so !"  They  kissed. 

This  was  their  lovemaking;  fifty  feet  in  the  air 
above  a  crowd  of  staring  workmen. 


Dr.  Ledlie,  examining  Smetana's  body  in  the 
company's  first  aid  room,  raised  a  puzzled  face  to 
Parker. 

"Yes — it's  heart,  all  right.  Er — it's  a  little  odd — 
the  heart  seems  actually  to  have  burst  ...  Very 
curious,  very — there  could  have  been  little  physical 
strain,  and  yet  it  is  as  if  it  were  torn  forcibly  apart." 

Parker  was  looking  at  the  forehead. 

"What  do  you  make  of  this?" 

"Eh?  Oh—"  the  doctor  looked.  "Oh,  bruise,  I 
presume — or  perhaps  contact  with  a  hot  wire  or 
something  of  the  sort,  when  he  collapsed." 

Parker  nodded,  and  gathered  up  his  hat  and  coat. 

"Well — I'm  going  along,  and  see  if  I  can  be  of 
any  help  at  Mr.  Harde's.  Seemed  pretty  well  taken 
care  of,  though,  with  Raleigh  and  Miss  Grayson. 
You're  sure  it's  nothing  serious  with  him?" 

"Nothing  in  the  least.  He  has  some  severe  con 
tusions  and  several  abrasions  where  the  steel  strips 
pressed  upon  him — also  an  uncomfortable  bruise  on 
the  head  where  the  magnet  first  struck  him  when  he 
was  pulled  up.  God — what  a  frightful  thing — one 


260  Chanting  Wheels 

of  the  men  who  saw  told  me  the  steel  strips  whipped 
up  around  him  as  the  magnets  knocked  him  down 
among  them,  and  he  was  off  the  ground  plastered  to 
them  in  a  second.  No  one  but  a  subject  for  an 
alienist  could  have  devised  it.  Curious,  that  heart 
condition  .  .  ." 

In  the  exact  centre  of  Smetana's  white  forehead 
was  indented,  with  great  delicacy  and  clearness,  an 
inverted  Crux  Ansata,  or  symbol  of  life.  It  was  as 
firm  as  if  it  had  been  stamped  there  with  a  tiny  red 
die. 


CHAPTER     XXII 

LAMENTOSO 

LATE  that  night  Raleigh  left  his  uncle  sleeping 
rest  fully,  and  discovered  the  roadster  still  at  the 
door  where  it  had  been  left  when  they  brought  David 
home.  Exultantly  he  got  in  and  shot,  with  a  singing 
heart,  across  the  city  to  Peggy  McGill.  He  shouted 
snatches  of  music,  and  accompanied  his  soaring 
melody  with  swoops  and  curves  of  the  powerful  car 
that  left  a  trail  of  hysteric  women  and  raging  traffic 
officers.  He  brought  the  car  to  a  stop  before  Peggy's 
lighted  house,  and  bounded  up  the  steps. 

An  hour  and  a  half  later,  she  watched  him  go 
slowly  down  the  walk  and  away,  then  slumped  into 
a  chair  and  cried. 

Raleigh  had  asked  her  to  marry  him  and  she  had 
refused  flatly. 


261 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

MUTUAL  COUNCIL 

» 

THE  front  door  of  David  Harde's  home  closed 
softly  on  Raleigh  as  he  turned  up  his  coat 
against  the  stinging  staccato  of  the  fine  cold  rain. 
Three  days  rest  and  an  inherently  splendid  vitality 
had  brought  the  Hydraulic's  President  swiftly 
back  to  accustomed  and  restless  vigor — and  to 
the  rebellion  of  the  active  against  the  bathgowned 
relaxities  of  convalescence.  Raleigh  had  spent  a 
surprising  hour  with  him ;  the  accident  had  stripped 
David  of  his  accustomed  reserve,  and  he  had  talked, 
man  to  man,  to  the  other  with  the  warmth  and 
interest  seldom  expended  upon  relatives — saved 
rather  for  stimulating  and  sure  friends.  To  Raleigh 
he  stepped  unexpectedly  into  the  role  of  the  latter. 
He  talked  of  his  early  ambitions — of  the  work  that 
had  meant  growth  of  the  huge  plant — of  what  he 
hoped  to  accomplish.  And  Raleigh  listened,  and 
questioned  and  suggested,  out  of  his  shop  experience, 
with  a  sageness  that  amazed  and  secretly  delighted 
David  Harde. 

"They're  marvellous,  those  men"  he  told  his  uncle, 
262 


Mutual  Council  263 

as  the  talk  swung  to  their  concert.  "They  react  with 
more  sureness  and  accuracy  to  supremely  fine  things 
than  the  majority  of  the  more  sophisticated  people 
whom  we  know.  You  see,  they're  fresh  and  un 
spoiled.  They  are  in  vital  contact  with  realities — 
and  not  too  pleasant  ones,  either.  They  are  not 
hampered  by  this  pall  of  convention  that  sits  upon 
us,  and  makes  us  smother  every  emotion  and  feeling 
we  have  as  if  it  were  an  illegitimate  child." 

His  uncle  snorted. 

"It's  perfectly  true!  I'll  bet  you  I  could  give  a 
fifteen  minutes'  talk  on  Beethoven's  Fifth  Sym 
phony — a  little  of  the  composer's  life — his  struggles, 
his  loneliness,  his  lack  of  understanding — all  the 
things  that  they  know — and  then  have  a  fine 
orchestra  with  a  real  conductor  play  it  for  them — 
and  they'd  react  a  hundred  times  more  finely  and 
keenly,  and  with  more  accuracy  of  emotional  orien 
tation  than  your  average  symphony  audience." 

So  they  had  talked.  Raleigh  left  with  the  sense 
of  meeting  for  the  first  time  a  forceful  and  interest 
ing  man  whose  restless  eagerness  he  profoundly 
understood.  The  glow  of  it  had  momentarily 
banished  the  dull  ache  at  the  base  of  him. 

But  now  the  sad  naked  trees  and  the  grey  hopeless 
ness  of  the  streaked  sky  quenched  him  swiftly,  be 
coming  the  objectivation  of  his  mood  of  cold  apathy 
— a  mood  lit  sullenly  with  an  angry  smoulder  of  re 
bellion.  For  once,  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  on  the 
gleaming,  rainsluiced  sidewalk,  he  did  not  sort  his 
emotions,  but  let  piqued  pride,  a  deep  hurt,  and 


264  Chanting  Wheels 

something  deeper  still  that  refused  to  accede  to 
Peggy's  decision,  mingled  within  him  to  a  misery  al 
most  unendurable.  He  experienced  it  physically  as  a 
morbid  sensitiveness — the  feel  of  his  clothes,  of  the 
rain,  of  his  own  body  was  become  intolerable  to  him. 

He  kicked  savagely  at  a  forlorn  bit  of  paper  on  the 
sidewalk,  and  started  toward  the  car-line. 

Then  he  glanced  across  the  street.  The  Grayson 
house,  with  its  broad  windows  and  sheltered  hedges 
beckoned  him. 

"Eleanor  .  .  .  She'll  understand."  He 
crossed  the  empty  shining  street  and  rang  the  bell. 

Rameses  opened  the  door  to  him  with  a  delighted 
grin.  The  old  darkey  had  liked  Raleigh  since  the 
first  moment  of  his  coming. 

"Yon's  quality"  he  had  asserted  to  fat  Maria  Todd 
over  the  Monday  wash-tubs. 

"Miss  Eleanuh?  She  sho  is,  suh.  Lemme  rest 
yo'  hat  an'  coat,  Massa  Dan." 

He  stalked  away  like  a  benign  monolith. 

"Miss  Eleanuh  done  present  huh  obligations,  suh, 
an'  say  to  hallucinate  yuhself  in  de  drawin'  room  an' 
she'll  be  raht  down." 

Raleigh  chuckled  in  spite  of  himself  at  the  incor 
rigible  ape  in  the  African  that  renders  him  peculiarly 
susceptible  to  poly-syllabic  hypnosis.  He  wandered 
into  the  library,  picked  up  a  book,  and  opened  it  at 
random. 

"He  opened  his  arms  wide,  and  Edith  crept  into 
them  like  a  tired  bird  into  its  nest,"  he  read.  He 
banged  the  book  down. 


Mutual  Council  265 

"Rot"  he  muttered,  and  strode  wrathfully  into 
the  big  living  room.  He  sat  at  the  piano,  sprayed  a 
melancholy  handful  of  chords  over  the  keys,  then 
stopped  abruptly,  and  laid  his  head  on  his  arms 
atop  the  folded  music-rest.  The  rain  tinkled  dis 
mally  at  the  window. 

Eleanor's  hand  on  his  shoulder  straightened  him 
suddenly.  She  was  looking  at  him  wide-eyed,  with 
her  tip-tilted  eyebrows  drawn  down  in  concern. 

"Why  Dan — what  in  the  world  is  the  matter?" 

He  rose,  and  shook  his  head  silently,  half  turning 
away.  Eleanor  had  chosen  a  bad  time.  Speech  was 
impossible.  The  girl  laid  a  very  light  hand  on  his 
arm. 

"Dan  Raleigh" — her  voice  was  low — "what  has 
happened  ?" 

"Oh,  it's" — He  stopped,  caught,  for  a  moment, 
by  a  dismaying  memory  of  their  drive  homeward 
from  the  dinner,  of  the  strange  look  in  Eleanor's 
eyes.  Of  course,  he  was  sure,  now,  of  his  brotherly 
attitude  .  .  . 

He  played  with  the  end  of  the  piano  cover  for  a 
moment,  then  lifted  his  stooped  head  and  looked  at 
her  squarely. 

"Ellie,— I'm  sadly  hit."  He  touched  his  chest, 
with  a  faint  attempt  at  humor. 

For  an  instant  she  stood  perfectly  still,  expres 
sionless,  her  life-long  guides  of  restraint  and  control 
active  against  the  essential  structure  of  her.  Then 
her  look  of  concern  relaxed  slightly. 

"It's  Peggy,  isn't  it?"  she  queried  softly. 


266  Chanting  Wheels 

Raleigh  nodded  miserably,  looking  away. 

"But  Dan — I  don't  ...  I  think  it's  lovely! 
Why  are  you  .  .  ." 

Raleigh  experienced  a  sudden  brief  buoyance  of 
relief.  He  could  tell  her  as  he  had  wanted  to.  That 
was  all  right,  anyhow.  He  gratefully  sat  down  be 
side  her  on  the  couch,  as  she  patted  a  place  for  him. 

"Now  tell  me,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  the 
consciousness  of  a  curious  detachment,  and  feeling, 
for  the  moment,  at  least  twenty  years  older.  The 
mother — complex  again — no  woman  can  have  men 
"tell  her"  things,  without  the  same  feeling.  Eleanor 
had  a  ridiculous  impulse  to  cuddle  his  tall  head  on 
her  shoulder  and  say  "There,  there,"  as  to  a  small 
and  injured  child. 

"There's  not  much  to  tell.  I — I  realized  it  at  the 
accident,  and — that  night,  after  I  left  Uncle  Dave, 
I  went  right  over  to  Peggy's.  I  told  her  all  about 
it,  and  .  .  ."  his  voice  trailed  off  for  a  moment. 

"She  turned  me  down  flat,  Elllie,"  he  finished  in 
an  almost  matter-of-fact  tone. 

Eleanor's  start  was  sufficiently  comforting. 

"Not  really?" 

"Very  really." 

"But" — Eleanor's  amazement  continued  to  grow, 
"but  Dan,  I  don't  see  how  she — " 

Raleigh  laughed  a  little. 

"You're  very  flattering,  Ellie,  but  the  fact  remains 
that  she  did." 

"But  why?'9 

"Ah,  that's  it.     I  thought  maybe  you  could  tell 


Mutual  Council  267 

me  that,  knowing  how  a  girl's  mind  works.  I've 
thought  for  the  last  three  days  till  my  head's  a 
beehive  .  .  .  You  see,  I  promised  not  to  see  her 
again  for  a  week." 

"What  did  she  say,  at  least?" 

"Why,  she  said  that  I  was  just  infatuated — that 
it  was  the  excitement  of  the  accident  and  all.  She 
seems  to  feel — " 

Eleanor  interrupted. 

"Just  one  thing,  Dan.  Do  you  really  think  that 
she  is  in  love  with  you,  no  matter  what  she 
says?" 

Raleigh  looked  at  her  soberly.  "Yes,  Ellie  I  do. 
I — one  feels  those  things,  I  think." 

("I  wonder,"  thought  Eleanor,  in  a  fleeting 
aside.) 

Raleigh  rose  and  began  pacing  the  room. 

"Oh,  it  was  too  absurd,  all  of  it.  She  said  that 
she  was  not  the  right  person  for  me,  and  that — " 

He  stopped,  flushing  suddenly. 

Eleanor,  watching  him  closely  smiled  a  little. 

"And  that  I  am,  I  suppose  ?"  she  finished  for  him, 
with  a  ripple  of  well-managed  laughter. 

Raleigh  carefully  looked  away. 

"Urn — yes    .    .    .    You  see,  she  thought — " 

"I  know  just  what  she  thought."  She  was  silent 
a  moment.  "What  a  marvellously  big  person,"  she 
said,  half  to  herself.  "I  couldn't — and  I'm  not  sure 
that  it's  right." 

She  turned  to  Raleigh  who  was  staring  moodily 
into  the  fire. 


268  Chanting  Wheels 

"Still,  Dan,  I  don't  see  why  that  should — " 

"Neither  do  I.  It's  this  sort  of  thing  that  is 
worrying  her.  Remember  the  day  we  decorated  the 
hall  for  the  concert.  Do  you  recall  our  talking  about 
Venice  and  Italy,  and  quoting  Benvenuto  Cellini  at 
each  other?" 

"Why,  no."  Eleanor  looked  blankly  at  him.  "I 
suppose  we  did,  though." 

"You  see,  you  didn't  even  remember.  Peggy  did. 
She  said — she  said  she  didn't  even  speak  my — our — 
language,  and  that  I'd  be  sorry  after  we'd  been 
married  a  little  while  .  .  .  and  all  the  time  look 
ing  at  me  .  .  .  my  God,  Ellie,  I  know  she  cares 
for  me." 

"She's  magnified  our  difference  in  experience  and 
education  into  a  huge  gulf,"  he  finished,  running 
his  hand  through  -his  hair,  a  gesture  of  puzzlement 
with  him  always,  and  kicking  at  the  logs  in  the  fire 
place.  Thus  the  change  in  Eleanor's  expression  and 
mood,  as  her  thoughts  took  a  sudden  inward  leap, 
failed  to  reach  him.  She  sat  up  straight. 

"Then  you  think  there  is  no  gulf  between  a  man 
and  woman  of  utterly  different  environments,  back 
grounds,  inherited  attitudes  toward  life  and  ways  of 
thinking?" 

"No.  The  only  gulf  is  a  mind-made  chasm  result 
ing  from  a  facile  acquiescence  to  a  convention  of 
mediocre  minds." 

"Dan !"  Eleanor  leaned  forward.  "Do  you  really 
believe  that?" 

He  looked  round  at  her  in  astonishment. 


Mutual  Council  269 

"Don't  you?  Don't  tell  me  you  think  she's  right, 
she " 

"Oh  you  and  Peggy — of  course.  She's  absurd, 
bless  her  honest  little  heart.  You  are  an  extremely 
lucky  young  person,  Dan,  if  you  can  convince  her 
."  Her  eyes  became  grave  again.  "I  was 
thinking  in  more  general  terms.  I  was  wondering 
if  it  was  always  true." 

"Mmm."  Raleigh  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  know. 
If  the  case  were  reversed,  I'd  not  be  at  all  so  sure." 

"Why?"  flashed  Eleanor  defensively.  "Sauce  for 
the  gander  should  be  sauce  for  the  goose." 

"That's  all  very  well,  but  the  goose,  unfortunately 
or  otherwise,  assumes  more  or  less  the  sauce  and 
garnishings  of  the  gander  with  whom  she  shares  the 
nest — or  roasting  pan." 

"Please  come  out  of  the  symbolic  kitchen.  I 
shall  be  talking  of  marital  duties  in  the  form  of 
stuffing  and  capers  in  a  moment." 

"All  right.  I  suppose  I'm  merely  trying  to  state 
an  ancient  truism — that  the  girl  assumes  the  friends, 
position  and  general  entourage  of  the  man  she  mar 
ries.  It's  always  like  that — never  the  reverse." 

"But  suppose — "  Eleanor  was  thinking  aloud 
"suppose — did  you  ever  see  'The  Admirable 
Crichton?'" 

"Yes — movie-ized  most  marvellously,  not  long 
ago.  It  always  made  me  rage,  that  play." 

"Oh — then  you  think  that  Lady  Mary  ought  to 
have  run  away  with  the  butler  ?" 

Raleigh  softly  pounded  the  arm  of  the  sofa. 


270  Chanting  Wheels 

"I  think  if  one  really  loves  a  person,  nothing  else 
ought  to  count  for  one  moment,  nothing     . 
that's  what  I  told  her"  he  finished  ruefully. 

Eleanor  stared  into  space  for  a  moment  .  .  . 
if  one  could  only  be  sure  .  .  . 

"Dan,"  she  said  suddenly,  "how  do  you  know — 
how  are  you  sure  you  love  Peggy,  really  love  her?" 

"I  often  used  to  wonder  myself.  I've  asked  pals 
of  mine  that  were  engaged.  I  don't  know.  You 
just — do." 

"As  simple  as  that?" 

"Yes,  for  me.  I  fancy  it's  not  the  same  for 
everybody." 

For  a  moment  they  both  sat  very  still,  each  busy 
with  the  thoughts  absorbing  them.  Then  Eleanor 
sighed  minutely,  and  touched  Raleigh's  arm. 

"Would  you  like  to  have  me  see  Peggy?"  she 
asked  gently. 

"Why — I  never  thought — do  you  believe " 

"She  think's  I'm  in  love  with  you?" 

Raleigh  squirmed  and  turned  crimson.  "Well, 
she " 

Eleanor's  laugh  was  perfect. 

"That's  the  best  sign  in  the  world  that  she  is, 
Dan.  Perhaps  if  I " 

Raleigh  went  to  her,  shaking  his  head. 

"No.  You're  a  dear  to  want  to.  But  I  want 
to  do  it  alone.  You  know?  I — I  just  had  to  talk 
it  over  with  someone,  though.  You  see,  the  part 
that's  hardest  is  the  uncertainty.  Mostly  I'm  sure 
that  she — she  does  care  for  me,  and  it's  just  a 


Mutual  Council  271 

misguided  idea  of  being  noble  that  makes  her  act 
like  this.  But  sometimes — I  wonder  if  it's  just  my 
own  feeling  that  makes  me  see  the  same  thing  in 
her?" 

"I  don't  know — but  I  don't  think  so.  At  least, 
your  own  feelings  are  quite  clear  .  .  .  That's 
something." 

She  rose,  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking 
musingly  at  Raleigh,  his  own  eyes  bent  on  the  floor, 
his  own  intense  self -preoccupation  curtaining  his 
sensitiveness  in  such  wise  as  to  prevent  it's  answer 
ing  her  mood  as  he  normally  would  have  done. 

Eleanor  glanced  at  her  watch. 

"Dan,  I'm  sorry,  but  I  must  run  and  dress.  Can't 
you  stay  here  and  have  dinner  with  mother  and  me  ? 
I'm  going  out  after,  but " 

"Thanks  awfully,  Ellie — I  can't.  I'd  be  a  most 
dreadful  dinner  guest  tonight."  He  shook  hands 
with  her  warmly. 

"You're  a  dear,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  her. 
The  trouble  in  his  dark  eyes  seemed  to  set  them 
deeper  than  ever  under  his  brows. 

"It's  been  fine  to  talk  to  you.    It's  helped  a  lot." 

"It's  helped  me,  too"  unexpectedly  she  returned. 
"No,  not  tonight,"  to  the  questions  suddenly  form 
ing  on  his  face.  "I'll  tell  you,  though — some 
time." 

He  walked  beside  her  to  the  door,  silent,  and 
suddenly  uncomfortable  again.  She  stood  for  a 
moment  on  the  steps,  while  he  drew  on  his  gloves. 
The  rain  had  stopped,  and  a  faint  wind,  warm,  and 


272  Chanting  Wheels 

softly  suggestive  of  new  earth,  stirred  vaguely. 
Veiled  stars  had  come  out. 

"Theatre?"  he  asked,  burning  to  ask  quite  other 
wise  things. 

"Yes,  theatre."  Then  her  eyes  twinkled  in  spite 
of  her.  "We  seem  to  have  the  McGill  family  much 
on  our  minds,  Dan.  I'm  going  to  see  the  opening 
of  'Mary  Rose'  with  Bob.  Goodnight."  Before  he 
could  speak,  she  ran  back  up  the  steps  into  the  house. 

Raleigh  stared  after  her,  a  multitude  of  questions, 
wonderments,  excited  queries  falling  into  his  mind 
like  shooting  stars.  He  thought  rapidly  back  over 
the  conversation  of  the  last  half  hour,  and  whistled 
softly,  with  sudden  warmth  of  cheek  and  brow, 
as  parts  of  it  came  back  .  .  . 

"You  blind,  selfish  idiot,"  he  told  himself  savagely 
and  strode  away. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

THE  IDEA   COMES 

THREE  days  later,  Raleigh  boarded  his  morning 
car  to  the  shops,  and  made  for  the  stove  at  one 
end  of  it,  shivering  a  little.  This  dun  prelude  to  the 
day  even  his  imagination  could  never  paint  with  the 
colors  of  romance.  Once  in  the  shop,  the  glow  of  the 
friendly  hot  metal  near  him,  the  presence  of  the 
friends  he  had  earned,  the  thunderously  ordered 
beauty  of  the  machines — all  made  the  din  and  dirt 
bearable.  But  the  ride  to  work  he  could  never 
envision.  Long  after,  he  could  smell  the  indescrib 
ably  depressing  odor  of  cold  slush  and  wet  iron — of 
tired  fetid  air — could  feel  the  leaden  dullness  of  the 
inert  lumps  of  humanity  who  sat  and  slept  miserably 
to  their  respective  stops,  and  tumbled  off  like  sacks. 

He  saw  Mesanyov,  his  head  bobbing  with  every 
motion  of  the  car  like  a  Jack-in-the-box  on  its  spring. 
Raleigh  slipped  into  the  seat  beside  him,  slid  his  arm 
across  the  back  of  it,  and  pillowed  the  nodding  head 
on  his  shoulder,  smiling  faintly. 

He  had  gone  about  his  work  in  a  dream — his 
manuscripts  lay  untouched,  and  the  noon  singing, 
partly  because  of  the  excitement  over  David's  ac- 

18  273 


274  Chanting  Wheels 

cident,  and  partly  because  of  a  deep  stirring  unrest 
among  all  the  men,  had  ceased.  Of  this  coiling  un 
rest  Raleigh  was  supremely  unconscious. 

Freddy  found  him  moody,  silent  and  strange. 
After  one  or  two  well  meaning  attempts  to  draw  him 
out,  that  resulted  in  feverish  flippancy  or  monosyl 
lables,  Fred  wisely  let  him  alone.  In  no  wise  did  he 
connect  the  change  in  Raleigh  with  the  strange  lapses 
in  Peggy's  ebullience. 

Raleigh's  own  head  nodded,  as  the  car  rocked  on, 
and  the  noise  of  its  wheels  iterated  confusedly  in  his 
ears  ...  he  drifted  off  into  a  whirling  world  of 
wheels — of  long  lines  of  trees  with  little  spinning 
discs  instead  of  leaves  .  .  .  Peggy  came  toward 
him  down  a  long  avenue  of  them ;  her  arms  reached 
up  and  drew  his  head  down  to  her  .  .  . 

The  intensity  of  it  woke  him  violently.  Almost  at 
the  same  moment  the  car  jolted  round  a  corner,  and 
Mesanyov  awoke.  He  stared  at  Raleigh  wildly  an 
instant  with  wide,  sleep-blind  eyes,  than  snuggled  on 
his  shoulder  like  a  warm  puppy. 

"Ah,  it  is  you,  barin"  he  said  comfortably.  Then 
he  sat  up  with  sudden  animation. 

"Oh,  but  it  is  the  great  day,  today." 

"What  great  day?"  echoed  Raleigh.  His  cheeks 
still  tingled  with  the  touch  of  Peggy's  hands  on 
them. 

"Today  is  big  shop  meeting,  barin.  We  all  go  on 
strike  and  then  we  all  be  bosses!"  Mesanyov 
launched  into  voluble  and  incoherent  discourse  that 
soon  mingled  to  Raleigh  with  the  rhythmic  noise  of 


The  Idea  Comes  275 

the  trolley  .  .  .  Suppose  he  had  let  Eleanor  go  to 
Peggy  •  •  •  Well,  tonight  would  end  the  week 
of  probation  she  had  set  for  him  to  "think  about 
it"  .  .  .  Never  had  he  seen  the  eight  hours  of 
work  stretch  so  endless  before  him  ... 

Mesanyov  still  talked. 

".  .  .  and  what  Grabler  tells  us,  we  do. 
Then " 

Raleigh  jumped.     "Who?" 

"Grabler.  He  talk  to  us  today.  He  want  us 
strike.  We  get  more  pay,  and  all  be  bosses " 

Raleigh  clutched  Mesanyov's  arm. 

"Who  is  Grabler?  How  do  you  know  he's  going 
to  talk  to  you?" 

Mesanyov  turned  on  him  brown  and  kindly  eyes 
that  glowed  with  the  eagerness  of  a  child. 

"You  see,  barin — night  for  las',  I  go  down  to 
Toney  Pete's.  Toney " 

Mesanyov  winked  elaborately,  and  made  the  ritual 
gesture  of  the  lifted  and  emptied  glass. 

"You  know,  barin?  He  make  it — hisself.  Men- 
gles — he  de  union  man,  too — he  get  very  drunk. 
He  tell  me  today  come  Grabler  to  talk  to  us  in  shop 
meeting.  He  is — what  you  say — agitator.  What 
he  tell  us,  we  do  that.  Then  we  all  be " 

"Good  God!"  Raleigh  suddenly  exploded.  So 
that  was  his  benign  philanthropist.  Fragments  of 
his  talk  with  Grabler  returned,  fitting  themselves 
catastrophically  together — the  man's  interest  in  his 
power  over  his  singers,  his  recognition  of  them  as 
the  leaders  among  the  foreign  element,  his  curious 


276  Chanting  Wheels 

insistence  on  Raleigh's  actively  prejudicing  them  in 
his  favor. 

Then  he  remembered  other  things — something  he 
had  overheard  Culhane  say  to  one  of  the  office  men 
the  day  before,  and  which  had  glanced  off  his  apathe 
tic  mind 

"The  furriners  tip  the  scales — if  they  go  out,  it 
means  a  walk-out  enough  to  tie  us  up.  If  they  stay 
we're  all  right." 

And  his  men  would  undoubtedly  decide,  one  way 
or  the  other  .  .  .  He  thought  of  the  gullible 
picture  he  had  made  for  Grabler,  and  flushed  hotly. 

Mesanyov  interrupted  his  angry  brooding. 

"When  we  have  the  next  sing-practice  for  concert, 
barin?"  Mesanyov,  having  placidly  decided  that  all 
were  to  be  bosses  in  a  near  state,  had  gone  on  to 
other  things. 

"What?  Oh,  I  don't  know — next  week,  I 
guess." 

Then  he  gasped.  If  the  strike  occurred  there 
would  be  no  next  week — nor  next  month — of  his 
congenial  little  groups  of  songsters — no  more  in 
tensely  valuable  work  with  his  human  laboratory  on 
the  substance  of  folk  song,  no  more  jolly  evenings 
of  rehearsals.  Then  the  men  would  be  scattered,  his 
friends  vanished 

Raleigh  saw  his  new  world  dissolving  in  chaos, 
and  turned  to  Mesanyov  with  a  new  intensity.  This 
strike  must  not  be. 

"Listen — is  there  really  going  to  be  a  strike?" 

"Yes  barin,  I  think.     Mengles  he  say  Grabler 


The  Idea  Comes  277 

tell  us  what  to  do,  and  we  do  it.  Mengles  been  talk 
long  tarn'  bout  di  meeting.  We  all  do  what  Grabler 
say.  He  make  us  all " 

Raleigh's  fist  banged  on  the  other's  knee. 

"Don't  you  do  it !  He  just  wants  to  make  trouble. 
You  strike,  you'll  all  be  laid  off — no  work,  no  money 
— just  hunting  around  for  a  job." 

But  Mesanyov  smiled  imperturbably.  "Oh,  we 
get  much  more  money  later,  when  the  union  she  is 
recognize  here.  Then  we  all  come  back,  barin  and 
we  all  be  bosses." 

Raleigh  felt  as  if  he  were  fighting  a  great,  soft, 
placid  featherbed,  a  cloud  of  calm  down  that  smoth 
ered  every  word  he  said.  He  shook  his  head  im 
patiently. 

"But  you  can't  come  back  then.  They  will  hire 
other  men." 

Mesanyov's  child-like  smile  broadened.  "Oh,  no 
barin.  We  not  let  them.  We  not  let  them  in  those 
other  men.  They  bad.  They  want  our  jobs.  We 
make  them  stay  away.  If  they  try  to  come  we  blow 
them  up." 

Raleigh  looked  at  him  intently.  Passive,  smiling, 
his  great  eyes  looked  into  Raleigh's  with  the  inno 
cence  of  a  small  child  and  the  velvet  softness  of  a 
faun,  while  he  calmly  parroted  the  formula  of  "blow 
ing  them  up."  In  a  flash,  Raleigh  realized  the  folly 
of  argument  with  such  a  man — with  all  his  kind. 
Most  of  them  could  not  think  far,  and  the  men  upon 
whom  they  depended  for  their  opinions,  the  men 
who,  in  another  age,  thought  for  them  and  led  them, 


278  Chanting  Wheels 

lied,  and  played  them  like  fish  for  their  own  ends. 
They  had  leaped  from  the  frying-pan  of  capital  into 
the  fire  of  demagogism.  Raleigh  sensed  his  own 
impotence  against  the  vast  inertia  of  Mesanyov  as 
typical  of  thousands  like  him. 

He  saw  the  danger  of  the  day,  but  remotely. 
Near  at  hand  lay  the  abrupt  termination  of  his  music, 
the  breaking  of  his  circle. 

His  mind,  never  a  logical  one,  seemed  to  have 
stopped.  He  remembered  what  Grabler  had  said  to 
him — "your  men  represent  the  leaders  in  the  foreign 
element  here." 

He  felt  suddenly  and  awfully  reasonable. 

Then,  as  they  left  the  car,  and  joined  the  plodding 
procession  of  figures  up  the  half -dark  roadway  to 
the  shops,  there  came  the  Idea,  fullborn.  Raleigh 
turned  cold  and  hot  as  he  caught  it. 

"Mesanyov!"  He  pinched  the  little  Russian  ex 
citedly,  and  bent  down  to  his  ear. 

"This  afternoon,  when  Grabler  talks  to  you,  I 
want  all  the  men  who  were  in  the  concert  to  be  to 
gether.  All  of  you  get  around  Freddy  McGill.  Try 
to  see  the  others,  and  tell  them  this.  We  want  .  .  . 
Will  you  do  this  for  me?" 

"Sure,"  returned  Mesanyov  amiably.  Had 
Raleigh  told  him  to  plant  a  bomb  under  the  corner 
of  the  Welfare  Building,  he  would  have  done  so 
with  equal  eagerness.  "I  tell  them,  Rosy,"  he  said. 

At  the  lockers,  he  met  Fred. 

"Freddy,"  he  plunged,  "I  want  all  of  you  that 
were  in  the  concert  to  be  together  at  that  meeting  this 


The  Idea  Comes  279 

afternoon — I  want  them  all  round  you.  You  get  as 
near  the  speaker  as  you  can." 

McGill  pulled  his  shirt  off  and  stared  at  Raleigh 
through  arches  of  dark  hair  hanging  athwart  his 
eyes. 

''Well,  that's  the  first  pep  I've  seen  you  show  for 
three  days.  What's  the  big  idea?" 

"You'll  see.  Just  watch  me  this  afternoon.  Can't 
say  more  now." 

"Peggy's  comin'  over  this  afternoon,"  volunteered 
Fred.  "I  told  her  there'd  likely  be  some  excitement. 
You  know  she  got  a  wonderful  letter  from  Mr. 
Harde." 

Raleigh  stood  stock  still,  his  work-shirt  half  over 
his  naked  shoulders. 

"Oh,"  he  said  quite  casual  of  tone,  "is  she?  I 
was  coming  over  tonight  to  see  her.  Don't  forget 
about  this  afternoon,  Freddy.  It — it  means  a  lot 
to  me." 

He  fled  away  to  work,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
suddenly  his  whole  body  was  singing.  Peggy  to  be 
there!  .  .  . 

At  noon,  Culhane  stopped  him,  hurrying  to  wash. 
All  morning  the  subdued  excitement  had  been  mount 
ing  under  the  mantle  of  work  and  roaring  noise  of 
ordinary  procedure.  Men  talked  together  in  little 
knots,  to  separate  at  the  approach  of  a  foreman,  or 
stared  curiously  at  one  another,  silent.  Norton  had 
been  hurrying  through  the  shops,  with  a  stranger, 
his  face  drawn  with  anxiety. 

Culhane  seized  Raleigh,  and  without  a  word,  drew 


280  Chanting  Wheels 

him  into  the  little  office.  They  were  alone.  He 
looked  at  him  eagerly. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

Culhane's  speech  was  quick  and  clipped. 

"That  bunch  of  yours  at  the  concert.  How  they 
going  to  stand  on  the  strike?" 

"I  don't  know.  Mesanyov  is  the  only  one  I've 
talked  to.  He's  all  for  it.  They  are  like  children. 
You  might  as  well  argue  with  a  babe  of  three." 

Culhane  stared  at  him  incredulously.  "You  mean 
— you  mean  you  haven't  got  'em  all  lined  up  for  us  ?" 

Raleigh  flushed.  "I — I  forgot  all  about  it,  Pat. 
I  did  hear  there  was  going  to  be  a  meeting  Thursday. 
but  didn't  pay  any  attention  to  it.  I've — I've  been 

N 

Pat  drew  a  hand  across  his  forehead,  and  his 
voice  trembled. 

"My  God,  boy,  can't  you  get  to  'em  ?  We  thought 
you  had  'em  all  lined  up  for  us.  I  spose  you  know 
them  men  in  your  quartets  happen  to  be  the  leaders 
o'  the  damn  foreigners,  and  the  others  '11  follow  what 
they  do  like  sheep?" 

Raleigh  thought  of  Grabler's  talk  and  flushed. 

"Yes — I  was  told — my  bunch  were  the  leaders. 
I  didn't  realize  it.  I  haven't  paid  any  attention  to 
the  whole  affair.  Mesanyov  told  me  coming  out 
on  the  car  that  the  meeting  was  this  afternoon." 

Culhane  continued  to  stare  at  him,  as  at  one  see 
ing  the  unbelievable.  Suddenly  he  laughed  bitterly. 
"I  don't  believe  you'd  know  it  if  someone  put  a 
dynamite  bomb  under  yuh  with  a  lit  fuse." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

YELLOW  ROSES 

DAVID'S  business  methods  were  still  sufficiently 
patriarchal  to  demand,  according  to  the  most  ap 
proved  efficiency  chart,  too  much  personal  detail 
from  him.  But  he  liked  it,  and  encouraged  the  in 
formal  habit  that  long  years  had  brought  of  having 
heads  of  departments  drop  into  his  office  with  ideas, 
and  for  advice. 

So  when  Parker's  brown  head  popped  in  with 
"May  I  see  you  a  moment,  Mr.  Harde?"  Parker's 
rotund  person  followed  with  no  hesitancy.  David 
liked  Parker,  and  this  morning  actually  welcomed 
him. 

"Well— what's  new?" 

"I  don't  know."  Parker  shook  his  head.  "I 
don't  like  the  look  of  things.  This  shop  meeting  this 
afternoon — Culhane  told  me  the  foreigners  will  tip 
the  scales  for  or  against  enough  of  a  walk-out  to 
tie  things  up  badly." 

"God  send  them  sense,"  returned  David  grimly, 
"but  He  won't." 

Parker  hesitated. 

281 


282  Chanting  Wheels 

"Do  you  think  it  was  wise  to  let  them  have  that 
meeting  here,  Mr.  Harde?" 

"Why  not?  We  don't  want  any  secrets.  When 
the  shop  committee  came  with  the  idea,  I  saw  the 
way  the  wind  was  blowing.  It's  out  of  our  hands 
now — but  it's  much  better  to  let  them  feel  they're 
quite  free  to  do  what  they  like  here.  After  all,  it's 
their  shop." 

"Of  course,  in  principle,  I  know  .  .  .  But  there 
are  rumors  that  they're  to  have  a  noted  union  agi 
tator  here  to  speak " 

"I  know.  Grabler.  He's  a  daneerous  power- 
seeker,  and  a  very  able  talker.  However,  it's  one  of 
the  things  I've  tried  for  most — to  have  the  men  feel 
that  this  is  their  place — and  if  they  want  to  have 
Emma  Goldman,  they  can — as  long  as  she  doesn't 
actually  throw  bombs.  I'm  counting  on  the  thing 
we've  tried  to  build  up,  and  the  men's  innate  good 
sense." 

"It  seems  like  flying  in  the  face  of  providence  to 
allow  a  man  like  that  inside  the  plant." 

David  made  a  slightly  impatient  gesture.  "Well — 
we've  flown.  It'll  be  a  pretty  effective  test  as  to 
whether  our  efforts  have  meant  anything  besides 
large  words."  He  made  a  movement  as  of  dis- 
•missing  the  subject.  "What's  on  your  mind?" 

"It's  young  Raleigh." 

David  glanced  quickly  up.  "Oh" — then,  curi 
ously.  "What's  he  up  to  now  ?" 

"Nothing  that  I  know  of,  except  planning  another 
concert.  It's  this.  I  want  him  in  my  department. 


Yellow  Roses  283 

He's  the  kind  I  need.  He's  doing  a  marvellous 
thing,  Mr.  Harde,  and  has  gotten  close  to  the  men 
in  a  way  I  don't  pretend  to  have  done.  It's  a  curious 
kind  of  sympathy  he  projects — they  all  like  him. 
That  song  of  his  has  gone  all  over  the  place,  and 
the  other  departments  are  clamoring  for  slogan- 
songs  of  their  own." 

"Yes,  I  knew  they'd  been  after  him  to  write  some 
more."  He  did  not  add  that  Raleigh  had  spent  the 
afternoon  with  him  three  days  before,  and  regaled 
him  with  shop  incident  until  the  august  president  had 
been  reduced  to  tears  of  mirth,  and  had  vowed  to 
find  something  better  than  tossing  billets  for  his 
amazing  nephew. 

"Yes?"  said  Parker,  a  little  aback.  (How  on 
earth  did  the  Old  Man  know  everything,  he  won 
dered.)  "Well,  I  propose  to  take  him  into  my  de 
partment,  at  a  good  salary,  and  have  him  do  music 
for  the  men,  just  as  he  is  doing,  but  give  all  his 
time  to  it,  and  centering  it  around  the  Welfare 
Building,  instead  of  outside.  Gradually  he  can  take 
over  all  the  entertainment  end  of  it  I  had  planned — 
classes,  etc.  I'm  going  to  be  swamped  with  the  new 
restaurant  and  the  family  improvement  development 
and  the  insurance.  What  do  you  think?" 

"Fine — but  will  he  take  it?  Norton  offered  him 
two  jobs,  one  in  the  sales  and  one  in  the  engineering, 
and  he  politely  refused.  Told  Norton  his  own  de 
velopment  was  progressing  sufficiently  where  he 
was !"  David  chuckled  for  the  first  time  that  day. 

"Oh — he'll  take  it,  I  think.    Music  is  his  one  big 


284  Chanting  Wheels 

thought.  Why  he's  here  or  where  he  came  from, 
God  knows." 

David's  chuckle  rose  to  a  snort  and  a  choke.  "Well 
—try  it  out." 

Parker  nodded.  "All  right.  I  wish  this  trouble 
was  over  in  the  shops.  Wonder  how  he'll  stand  on 
it?  He  ought  to  pull  a  bunch  with  him." 

David  sobered  grimly.  "I've  been  wondering 
about  that  myself,"  he  said. 

When  Parker  had  gone,  he  sat  for  a  moment, 
rubbing  the  nearly  healed  bruise  on  his  shoulder. 
Then  he  picked  up  the  telephone  and  gave  a  number. 
As  the  voice  came  over  the  wire,  his  face  changed 
oddly;  lines  shifted  about  the  mouth  and  eyes;  it's 
angularity  softened  into  a  half -smile. 

"Hello — Eleanor  .  .  .  Yes.  I  wish  you  would 
come  over  to  the  shops  this  afternoon.  Yes,  it's 
very  special.  You  know  about  this  meeting  ?  .  .  . 
Exactly.  Well  it  will  mean  a  great  deal.  I'd — I'd 
like  to  have  you  here.  It's  a  crisis,  in  a  way,  of 
whether  our  ideas  have  meant  anything.  .  .  ." 

He  listened  a  moment,  nodding,  then  his  smile 
flashed  white  teeth  suddenly. 

".  .  .  Did  you  ?  Yes,  do — I'm  glad  they're  yel 
low  instead  of  red — wear  them  by  all  means  .  .  . 
I  hope  it's  an  omen — yellow's  the  color  of  pros 
perity — and  red — a  certain  flag  has  given  it  undue 
prominence  .  .  .  yes,  about  three-thirty.  Come 
to  my  office.  Oh  by  the  way,  who  was  the  young 
gladiator  I  saw  you  with  at  'Mary  Rose'  the  other 
night?  What?  Now,  where  have  I  heard  .  .  . 


Yellow  Roses  285 

No,  you  don't  tell  me — brother  of  that  brave  girl 
who  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  no ;  this  is  my  first  day  out, 
you  know,  but  I  wrote  her  .  .  .  Where  may  I 
ask,  did  you  meet  Mr.  Robert  McGill  ?" 

There  was  a  long  silence  on  David's  part,  during 
which  Miss  Thompson,  chancing  to  uncover  the  ex 
tension  phone  in  her  office,  caught  the  words 
"...  trying  an  experiment,  David — you  remember 
the  Richard  Harding  Davis  story  where  an  infat 
uated  bachelor  puts  the  picture  of  his  lady-love  in  a 
chair  and  talks  to  it  one  entire  evening  ?  Well,  you 
see,  I  .  .  ."  Miss  Thompson  replaced  the  receiver 
and  returned  to  her  letters  with  a  slightly  wrinkled 
brow. 

David  chuckled.  "What  was  the  result?  Oh — 
too  early  to  tell,  eh?  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course;  well, 
I  can't  use  up  my  precious  time  like  this,  with  per 
haps  a  complete  shut-down  facing  me  tomorrow 
.  .  .  don't  be  flippant,  young  lady  .  .  .see  you 
at  three  thirty." 

He  sat  back,  a  curious,  wistful,  eager  light  in  his 
eyes  for  a  moment  that  would  have  mystified  his 
business  associates.  Then  he  seized  a  pile  of  papers 
and  shouted  for  Miss  Thompson. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    HYPER-DORIAN    MODE 

WHEN  Raleigh,  frenzied  with  the  delay  of  an 
appointment  with  Parker,  his  head  still  whirl 
ing  with  what  that  meeting  had  held  for  him,  reached 
the  cutting  shop,  the  speaker  was  just  finishing. 
Raleigh  felt  his  heart  sink  as  he  looked  out  over  the 
sea  of  men.  The  buildings  were  quiet  with  the  un- 
canniness  of  noisy  places  suddenly  stilled.  Only  the 
distant  surging  rhythm  of  the  three  great  presses 
came  faint  but  plainly  to  him.  The  huge  room  was 
in  semi-shadow — the  short  daylight  already  fading, 
and  the  sun  shot  level  beams  of  orange  watery  light 
through  the  dulled  glass  of  the  western  windows. 
It  streaked  the  machinery  here  and  there  with  high 
lights,  subduing  the  mass  of  men  into  general  dim 
ness,  as  they  stood  listening,  tense,  their  faces  lifted 
to  the  speaker,  occasionally  nodding  to  each  other, 
or  uttering  short  guttural  growls  of  approval. 
Raleigh  looked  at  those  nearest  him  with  the  de 
tachment  of  a  spectator  at  a  play,  conscious  of  a 
growing  desire  to  burst.  The  men's  eyes  never  left 
the  tall  figure  above  them  in  the  center  of  the  shop 

286 


The  Hyper-Dorian  Mode      287 

on  a  cutting  press  platform — a  man  with  a  sur 
charged  carrying  voice,  and  flinging  arms  like  flails. 

Raleigh  stepped  up  on  a  cutting  machine  and 
looked  around.  He  picked  out  McGill.  He  was  in 
the  center  of  the  floor,  in  the  first  line  of  men,  packed 
about  the  press.  Around  him  were  the  others — 
Mesanyov  and  Sapinski  and  Giovanni,  Doolan  and 
Kalousdian — all  his  men. 

He  took  one  look  and  threaded  through  the  men, 
with  a  whispered  greeting  and  a  smile  here  and 
there.  He  was  still  in  the  undress  of  his  work,  for 
he  had  gone  straight  from  the  press  to  Parker,  and 
his  white  shirt  and  shoulders  and  tall,  yellow  head 
stood  out  from  the  dark  mass  of  men.  He  reached 
McGill's  side  just  as  Grabler,  with  a  final  fling  of  his 
arms  concluded.  His  face  gleamed  and  his  pale  eyes 
bulged  with  excitement.  He  held  them  with  one 
upflung  hand. 

There  was  an  instant's  silence — then  a  roar — ap 
plause,  mingled  shouts,  calls,  echoed  in  the  huge  shell 
of  a  building.  The  surging  of  the  three  great  presses 
faded  under  it.  Raleigh  grabbed  McGill's  arm, 
and  shouted  into  his  ear. 

"Now — do  as  I  say — sing  like  hell!    Watch  me." 

Three  or  four  of  his  men  nearest,  their  faces  still 
blazing  with  excitement  of  Grabler's  stirring,  leaned 
towards  him  to  catch  the  words.  Before  McGill 
could  reply,  Raleigh  had  swung  across  the  little 
empty  space  to  the  press,  climbed  it,  and  stood  on  the 
platform  beside  Grabler,  who  waved  his  arms  in  a 
frantic  effort  to  be  heard  again.  The  bedlam  was 


288  Chanting  Wheels 

deafening.  Raleigh  picked  up  an  iron  lever-bar  and 
advanced.  He  nodded  to  Grabler.  The  agitator 
frowned. 

"Here — what  do  you  want?"  he  snapped  sharply. 
in  a  low  voice.  The  roar  of  applause  and  shouting 
suddenly  dropped  at  Raleigh's  tall  figure  beside 
Grabler. 

Raleigh  did  not  reply.  White  with  excitement,  he 
stepped  forward  in  front  of  the  other  and  flung  up 
his  right  arm,  grasping  the  bar. 

Moblike,  the  huge  crowd  fell  to  silence.  The 
rhythm  of  the  presses  came  faintly  upon  it,  like  a 
distant  surf.  Raleigh  spoke.  His  big  voice,  crisped 
with  excitement,  carried  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the 
building. 

"Boys,"  he  cried,  "we've  just  heard  a  talk.  Let's 
show  the  gentleman  what  we  can  do.  Let's  give  him 
a  song." 

His  eyes  were  bent  upon  McGill  and  the  others, 
below.  He  lifted  the  bar  like  a  baton.  The  sun, 
dropping  clear  of  smoke,  suddenly  flooded  through 
the  windows  full  on  the  high  platform,  and  covered 
Raleigh  with  a  golden  glory,  as  he  stood,  naked  arm 
upraised  and  big  body  tense.  It  gleamed  through  his 
towsled  light  hair  like  an  aureole.  The  rest  of  the 
room,  lower,  remained  dim;  only  the  splendid  taunt 
figure  glowed,  suspended  in  the  dark  void. 

The  flood-tide  of  emotion  and  excitement  in  the 
room  paused  sharply,  like  a  visible  current,  and  began 
to  pile  up  the  silence.  Raleigh  waited  until  the  sus 
pense  was  almost  unbearable,  then  crashed  down  the 


The  Hyper-Dorian  Mode      289 

bar,  and  sent  his  voice  out  in  the  "Hot-press  Chanty." 
With  a  shout  of  song,  his  trained  chorus  of  men  was 
with  him.  He  had  timed  it  well.  The  tide  of  emo 
tion,  blocked  of  its  expression  of  shouting,  swung, 
rushed,  into  the  channel  of  song. 

Men  near  took  up  the  chant.  Then  others.  Back 
of  it  all,  mingling  and  sustaining,  came  the  rhythm 
of  the  three  great  presses — for  the  rhythm  of  the 
song  was  the  beat  of  the  presses.  More  men  joined, 
the  chorus  steadily  grew — half  grasped  at  the  words, 
half  roared  out  the  elemental,  stirring  theme.  As  it 
came  to  the  last  line,  Raleigh  advanced  a  step,  lifted 
his  left  arm,  and  with  a  great  gesture,  swept  them  all 
into  the  repetition.  Irresistibly  the  men  surged  for 
ward,  singing,  their  eyes  shining,  their  faces  lifted 
to  the  strangely  lit  figure  above  them,  carved  like  a 
golden  god,  and  glowing  in  the  sun. 

And,  as  the  singing  mounted  stronger  and 
stronger,  with  the  swelling  voices,  as  man  after  man 
came  in  on  the  flooding  excitement  of  the  moment 
and  lifted  his  voice  to  a  roar,  the  room  began  to 
vibrate  like  a  cathedral  with  the  organ's  peal  upon  it. 
Wave  after  wave  of  sound  surged  against  the  walls 
and  back.  Men  grasped  each  other's  hands,  uncon 
sciously,  and  smiled,  singing, — almost  visibly,  to  the 
exalted  lad  leading  them,  something  began  growing 
between  and  among  them — a  close-knit,  glowing  en 
thusiasm,  a  strange  warmth — a  unity — a  loyalty 

Raleigh  felt  the  exultant  triumph  of  it  flow  into 
him  from  the  great  mass  of  singing  men,  and  it 
seemed  that,  queerly,  everything  shifted,  blurred; 


290  Chanting  Wheels 

outlines  wavered.  They  grew  luminously  clear;  he 
saw  the  scene  as  with  another  sense — as  if  powerful 
rays  dissolved  its  material  surface  and  revealed  its 
shining  reality ;  he  seemed  to  be  upon  a  huge  slab  of 
white  stone;  overhead,  a  very  near  sky,  dusty  and 
glittering  with  stars.  Behind  him,  leaped  the  light 
of  a  great  altar  fire,  painting  him  with  gold,  and 
back  of  it,  the  sharp  entaglio  of  a  colonnade  of  pil 
lars — before  him,  broad  stone  steps,  and  multitudes 
of  men  stretching  into  the  distance — men  with  bare 
necks  and  arms,  with  dark,  intense  faces  lifted  to 
him  as  he  led  them  in  song.  The  altar  fire  seemed 
to  leap  through  him  to  them,  with  a  singing  flame 
and  a  roaring  whir  of  great  wings,  and  of  mighty 
winds  whirling  out  of  the  sky  and  shouting  one 
word — Loyalty — loyalty — loyalty  .  .  .  the  ecstasy 
shook  him  .  .  .  then  he  saw  again  the  shop,  the  men 
below  him,  but  the  feeling  remained,  the  bond — the 
uplift  .  .  . 

With  a  supreme  gesture,  he  flung  the  bar  up — held 
the  final,  prolonged  note  of  chant  until  the  shop 
roared  and  echoed  and  throbbed,  and  then,  with  a 
crash,  brought  the  bar  down  upon  a  piece  of  sheet 
steel. 

Peggy,  watching  near  the  door  between  Eleanor 
Grayson  and  David  Harde,  sucked  in  her  breath 
sharply,  and  sunk  her  fingers  into  Eleanor's  arm  till 
she  winced. 

There  fell  a  silence — and  through  it  the  panting  of 
men — a  silence  that  crackled.  Raleigh  stepped  to  the 
very  edge  of  the  platform. 


The  Hyper-Dorian  Mode      291 

"Boys,"  he  cried,  his  voice  high  and  strange  to 
himself,  "that  song  we've  sung  together — it  means 
loyalty.  It  means  we  stick  by  each  other,  and  by  the 
plant.  It  means  we  play  fair.  Are  we  going  to  be 
quitters  ?  Are  we  going  to  go  back  on  men  that  have 
trusted  us?  Are  we  going1  to  be  fooled?  I  was 
fooled — by  the  man  who  has  just  talked  to  you.  But 
I  didn't  know,  then,  that  he  wanted  to  break  up  our 
bunch  here.  Are  we  going  to  let  any  outsider  tell 
us  how  to  run  ourselves  ?  No,  not  by  a  damn  sight. 
We're  going  to  play  the  game  square,  square " 

He  flashed  a  hand  up. 

"How  many  are  going  to  stick  on  the  job  with 
me?" 

No  silence  this  time — a  roar  that  engulfed  him, 
as  the  men  swept  toward  the  platform.  He  glanced 
round  for  Grabler.  That  gentleman,  whatever  his 
faults,  could  sense  an  atmosphere.  He  had  vanished. 

Raleigh  was  pulled  from  the  platform,  and  into 
the  arms  of  McGill.  He  embraced  him  with  a  wild 
whoop.  Mesanyov  cast  himself  on  Raleigh's  neck, 
sobbing  with  Slavic  excitement,  and  kissed  him 
moistly.  He  was  led  off  .  .  . 

Then,  somehow,  suddenly,  incredibly,  the  crowd 
parted,  and  Peggy  was  coming  to  him.  She  was 
running,  with  her  hands  out.  Her  eyes  were  bright 
with  unshed  tears.  She  flung  herself  straight  into 
his  arms. 

"I  can't  help  it"  he  caught  in  a  choky  voice,  its 
mellow  curves  for  once  broken.  "I've  got  to  have 
you.  Oh  Dan "  .  .  . 


292  Chanting  Wheels 

All  his  life,  Raleigh  had  dreamed  of  his  great 
moment.  Always  it  had  been  a  thing  apart — a 
climax  caught  on  the  crest  of  some  lonely  wooded 
hill,  under  the  crescent  of  a  young  moon  smiling  to 
the  dying  west,  with  a  woods  such  as  Melisande 
might  have  been  lost  in  behind  them,  gnarled  with 
mysterious  blue  shadows,  greenly  old.  .  .  . 

He  was  surrounded  by  begrimed,  furiously  exult 
ant  workmen,  whose  roaring  cheers  mounted  as  he 
bent  his  head  above  Peggy. 

Eleanor,  watching  from  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  had  seen  Peggy's  head  lift,  had  seen  her  poise. 
Then  she  knew,  and  watched  her  without  surprise 
dart  into  the  crowd  like  an  arrow. 

She  adjusted  the  great  bunch  of  golden  roses  at 
her  breast  carefully,  and  turned  with  her  silver  chime 
of  laughter  to  the  dazed  David  Harde. 

"It's — quite  mediaeval,  David,"  she  said,  her  ex 
quisitely  modelled  face  lifted  slightly,  one  small  grey 
gloved  hand  resting  for  a  moment  on  David's  arm. 
"The  knight  victorious,  and  the  swift  guerdon  of 
the  ladye  faire  .  .  ." 

She  moved  lightly  toward  the  door. 

"How  stunning  he  looked  in  that  shaft  of  light — 
like  Orpheus  in  a  gym  shirt,  with  steel  and  a  sun 
beam  for  a  lyre." 

With  a  last  look  toward  the  surging  shop,  she 
turned  with  David  up  the  corridor  toward  the  office, 
her  chin  raised. 


The  Hyper-Dorian  Mode      293 

"But  how  did  ye  do  it?"  cried  Pat,  his  hand  on 
Raleigh's  shoulder,  as  he  stood  outside  the  little 
office,  waiting  for  McGill.  Peggy  he  had  unwillingly 
parted  with  to  change  his  clothes.  Pat  had  brought 
word  that  she  was  waiting  outside  the  offices  for 
him,  with  David  Harde.  The  men,  laughing,  jest 
ing,  still  high  and  vivid  with  excitement,  had  gone 
home. 

Raleigh,  not  yet  himself,  turned  luminous  eyes 
on  the  foreman. 

"I?  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  was  the 
force  of  the  hymn  to  Apollo — the  old  mode — the 
evocative  power — expressing  loyalty." 

McGill  burst  upon  them  round  the  corner  of  the 
lockers,  linked  his  arm  through  Raleigh's  and  bore 
him  off  down  the  shops. 

Pat  stood,  his  mind  still  tingling  with  the  surge 
of  four  thousand  voices  lifted  to  a  roar  of  song.  He 
became  conscious  suddenly  of  the  three  great  presses. 
He  seemed  still  to  hear  the  song  in  their  vast,  cease 
less  rhythm — "we  play — the  game — and  play — it 
square"  .  .  . 

Suddenly  his  face  flooded  with  light. 

"Chanting  wheels!"  he  cried  under  his  breath. 

He  turned  slowly  into  his  little  office,  and  stared 
for  a  long  time  unseeingly  at  a  production  sheet. 


THE  END 


PRIVILEGE 

BY 

MICHAEL  SADLEIR 

"The  story  of  the  decline  and  fall  of  Whern  is 
always  poignant  and  never  dismal.  The  romance  is 
of  the  stuff  of  the  story,  seen  by  an  author  who 
knows  the  world  we  live  in.  ...  The  picture,  for 
all  of  its  rich  colour  and  noble  gesture,  is  essentially 
true.  And  it  is  full  of  that  queer  fascination  exerted 
by  greatness  that  is  passing  or  has  passed." — Times 
Literary  Supplement. 

Hamilton  Fyfe  in  the  DAILY  MAIL  says: 

"  About  '  Privilege '  I  find  it  hard  to  write  with 
out  exaggeration.  It  is  so  truly  imagined,  this  story 
of  the  decline  of  an  ancient  family  ;  so  skilfully  pre 
sented,  and  written  with  so  sure  a  hand,  that  we 
must  put  its  author  among  the  most  distinguished 
not  only  of  our  younger  but  of  all  our  novelists. 
.  .  .  The  entire  book  is  a  piece  of  literature,  satis 
fying  from  every  point  of  view." 

PUNCH  says: 

"  I  can  imagine  few  books  that  would  give  to 
some  modern  Rip  van  Winkle  a  better  understand 
ing  of  the  attitude  of  aristocratic  youth  towards  the 
life  of  today.  ...  A  novel  both  individual  and 
touched  with  a  dignity  too  rare  in  these  days  of 
slovenly  fiction." 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


Sold  South 

By 

William  Almon  Wolff 

Pitchforked  into  the  diplomatic  service 
by  a  long  suffering  uncle  whose  "Big- 
business"  soul  could  no  longer  endure 
his  nephew's  ever  serious  blunders,  Scott 
Preston  leaves  for  South  America, — "sold 
south,"  a  slave  to  necessity.  Then  and 
there  begins  a  story  of  action  and  power 
— and  love — against  a  background  of  a 
real  republic,  of  real  people — not  the 
comic  opera,  fiction  spiggoty. 

It  is  fully  as  readable  as  Richard 
Harding  Davis's  Soldiers  of  Fortune, 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


The  Seventh  Man 


Max  Brand 

Author  of  "The  Untamed,"  "The  Night 
Horseman,"  "Trailin*,"  etc. 


"Whistlin'  Dan  Barry"  again  —  and 
with  him  Satan,  the  black  stallion,  and 
Black  Bart,  the  wolf-dog!  This  is  the 
third  and  last  of  the  stories  of  the 
mysterious  follower  of  the  wild  geese 
and  his  faithful  friends.  The  novel  is 
complete  in  itself,  and  to  new  readers 
of  Brand  cannot  fail  to  make  its  mark, 
while  to  those  who  have  read  The 
Untamed  and  The  Night  Horseman,  or 
have  seen  Tom  Mix  in  the  screen 
versions,  no  message  is  necessary. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


ERIK   DORN 

By 
BEN  HECHT 

H.  L.  MENCKEN  says: 

"Disorderly,  iconoclastic  and  novel  in  form, 
'Dorn'  is  one  of  the  most  stimulating  and  orig 
inal  stories  I  have  encountered  in  many  days. 
It  would  be  hard  to  exceed  the  brilliancy  of 
some  of  its  episodes.  It  has  upon  me  the 
effect  of  a  gaudy  and  fantastic  panorama,  in 
which  the  movement  is  almost  acrobatic  and 
the  color  is  that  of  a  Kaleidoscope." 

BURTON  RASCOE  says: 

"Ben  Hecht,  among  all  the  young  men  of  the 
post-war  generation  of  American  Novelists, 
has,  it  seems  to  me,  the  most  opulent  equip 
ment  in  the  matter  of  intelligence,  experience 
and  imaginative  power.  The  verbal  patterns, 
the  pungently  evocative  word  combinations, 
the  strange  richness  of  metaphor  of  'Erik 
Dorn,'  if  for  no  other  reason,  cause  it  to  stand 
out  as  a  distinct  new  model  in  mechanics  of 
expression." 


New  York    G.  P.  Putnam's    SonS     London 


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